


Follow Some Other Storm

by poetica (TheFire_in_the_NightSky)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, John & Abigail do not stay together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Game to Epilogue, References to Depression, Secret Relationship, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Time Skips, Toxic Masculinity, Unconventional Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mentions of Eliza & Isaac, this story will have some sad moments and some hopeful ones too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 66,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22766701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/poetica
Summary: [1895]The storm was a quick-moving one, and in its wake is a renewed stillness in the atmosphere. The faint rumblings of thunder can be heard in the distance, and their horses nicker outside amongst themselves as if in relief.With the lantern blown out, Arthur's eyes adjust to the darkness. He stares up at the peak of the tent, willing himself to doze off and ignore the thoughts screaming to be heard inside his head. His fingers trace idle, swirling patterns along John's shoulder, over the chapped knuckles of the hand he's got clenched over Arthur's heart. At some point, John has dropped off to sleep, his breathing comin’ out in rough puffs through his mouth.When Arthur finally finds his own calmness that is enough to usher in a shallow slumber, his last thoughts are upon a question, wondering just what kinda repentance he owes to get 'imself outta this kind of Hell.___________________________________________*This story will utilise time-skips in its narrative, but will also follow relatively close to canon, especially once it hits 1899, albeit with some twists/changes thrown in here and there. Mind the tags.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts/John Marston (mentioned), John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 73
Kudos: 118





	1. A Heavy Torch Held (1895)

**Author's Note:**

> As you'll notice in this particular chapter title, it takes place four years before the main game events. Each chapter will have a corresponding year with it (when applicable) as this goes on and time passes within the story.
> 
> Besides the game's monumentally gorgeous-yet-heartbreaking plot, this story, as a whole, was greatly inspired by a poem I wrote while listening to Murder by Death, especially the songs, "Foxglove," "Good Morning, Magpie," and "Alas." [obviously the gender would be changed in the lyrics where fitting, but I digress] I definitely suggest giving them a listen if you feel inclined to do so, as they helped set the tone of this immensely.
> 
> "Werewolf" by Cat Power is quoted at the start of this.

_Once, I saw him in the moonlight, when the bats were a flying_   
_I saw the werewolf, and the werewolf was crying_

_Cryin' nobody knows, nobody knows_   
_How I loved the man, as I teared off his clothes_   
_Cryin' nobody knows, nobody knows my pain_   
_When I see that it's risen, that fool moon again_

* * *

Dew has just started to collect on the springy blades of grass the horses trample through; Arthur can smell its cool-water scent fill the air. He and John steer their mounts towards a hilly part of a small field. Boadicea gives a relieved snort and shakes her head as Arthur lightly tugs back on her reins with the squeeze of his fingers. John’s flighty little gelding sidles up next to them and John looks to Arthur, tips his hat with too smug a smirk, then dismounts, almost slippin’ on the slick grass as he does so.

Fog is slowly rolling in to cling amongst the tree branches like dirty, wispy cotton fibres. Soon, the moonlight will be nothing more than a scant glow from behind the low-hanging clouds. There is already a damp nip in the air. Seems like a night for a decent campfire, even though it’s not quite cold enough for it just yet. Arthur watches John from the viewpoint of Boadicea’s back for a moment longer. Watches him pick out a spot he must approve of with his narrow-eyed scrutiny, and then John immediately goes to work stomping and smoothing down tall grass to make way for their tents and gear.

Sat by the fire, Arthur scrapes the last of the contents from his can of beans with a battered and pitted spoon. He tosses the can into the fire, wipes the dull grey pewter of the spoon clean on a rag from his satchel, then stores away both. John sits a little ways from him, wordlessly staring into the fire, taking puffs from a cigarette. He’s got an uncapped flask propped up against his hat on the ground, filled with whiskey, no doubt. The kid had taken to drinkin’ more than usual as of late. Ever since Miss Roberts had declared, more publicly, and more _vehemently_ than ever, that John was the father of the baby boy she’d recently given birth to a couple months back. 

Arthur can still perfectly picture – as if it were just yesterday – the way John had paled, reaching for a whole bottle of Kentucky bourbon he’d already been nursing so fiercely, as Abigail and the baby both had wailed in announcement of one Jack Marston making his entrance into this despicable world.

John had also taken to bein’ a lot more angry since then. Outbursts around camp or reckless behaviour, tryin’ to take on jobs he wasn't really no good at, and stewing in a heavy silence off by ‘imself in between. He confided in Arthur a whole lot less, too. Arthur couldn’t really speak for what he might’ve said to Hosea, as the man had a particular easy, trusting way about ‘im that could pry open a tightly corked bottle with just one look.

Arthur strikes a match on the shoulder of his worn-stiff rawhide jacket and lights his own cigarette. “You know we gotta head back tomorrow evenin’, if we don’t bag anything,” Arthur reminds John, voice low. He watches John from the corner of his eye for a reaction that he was at least heard.

John takes a last drag of his cigarette before lazily flicking it into the fire. He nods, almost annoyed seeming, and sighs. “Yeah. I know. It’s springtime now, Arthur. There should be plenty a’ game. Sure we could get somethin’.” And then, in his best-most-worst impression of Dutch, _“Have a little faith!”_

“Plenty of game don’t mean shit if you can’t shoot not a one of ‘em. And I’m not wasting more time out here when Dutch and Hosea need me– _need us,_ might I kindly remind you, for more important things. We ain’t yet hurtin’ with our reserves. Let one of the other boys go out huntin’. Don’t know why I let you wrangle me into this little trip, anyway.”

“Hey, you know, sure as shit, I’m a better shot’n you.” John makes a sorry attempt at looking pityingly offended. “Gettin’ quicker, too…” he adds, offhandedly.

“Oh, sure. Sure. But accuracy don’t matter a wit when you go... loping off towards a herd of deer, scaring ‘em all off for miles! Scarin’ off every small critter too probably, cause you _thought it was funny.”_

“What? Oh _c’mon,”_ John laughs, even now. A tipsy slowness to his words. “I didn’t _mean_ it! Just got a little excited, is all.” He’s still smiling as he takes a pull from his flask, offers it to Arthur, who snatches it out of his hand.

“Yeahhh, that’s you,” Arthur sniffs the contents, then knocks back a decent swallow. He caps the flask and hands it back. Whiskey-warmth coats his mouth and throat. “Like a goddamn jackrabbit in heat, always boundin’ about. Gotta learn to reel yourself in, kid. Use that empty head of yours for once, otherwise it’s just good for pretty much nothin’ but looks.”

“And you sure think I got ‘em,” Arthur hears John mumble under his breath, but John turns his head just as Arthur tries catchin’ the look in his eyes. John looks out across the night that shadows the deep blue-green of the curving meadow. A faint breeze curls his lank, dark hair around his neck.

Arthur nearly shoves him. He lets out a disbelieving laugh, which grabs John’s attention. “Excuse me? Got what? Brains? ‘Cause I hate to–”

 _“Looks!”_ John throws a hand up in an frustrated gesture and scowls at Arthur, defiantly holdin’ his gaze.

Arthur feels like his own skull goes completely empty. Every thought just flies away from him as he stares back at John. What he wants to do, is look away, but lookin’ away would make him seem somethin’ like guilty. And Arthur is certainly guilty of many a thing, and definitely things any God-fearing man would consider a _sin,_ but this– 

“Sure. Like a greasy, mangy coyote that ain’t eaten in days,” he lies through his goddamn teeth.

“Oh, fuck off, Arthur!” John stands quickly and tries to light another cigarette with shakin’ hands. Nearly both rips the flattened pack open and trips over the fire pit in his apparently irritated haste. He manages to do neither (and Arthur is glad he doesn’t have to waste the contents of his waterskin to douse the moron if he were to set himself alight), finally turning to face Arthur head on, face mean and angry.

“How can you pretend, huh? You make it look so _goddamn easy,_ so tell me please, cause I would _love_ to know.”

 _“John,”_ Arthur warns, even though he’s not real sure for what just yet. But the hammering in his chest and the sick feelin’ in his stomach suggest he’s got some idea he just don’t consciously wanna admit to.

“No,” John cuts him off with a short, accusatory motion of the hand holding his cigarette, smoke swirling shapes in the air. Then he points again, directly at Arthur. “You know how– _badly_ I always wanna ask you about it?” His brow is furrowed, looking confused and hurt, and Arthur can’t recall many times he seen John look quite this way. “Then I get... too scared, worried that– I dunno, maybe you forgot all about it, or never remembered in the first fuckin’ place. But I think– I think you remember just fine. You weren’t half as drunk as me that night, anyway.” John’s voice is hoarser sounding than usual with the effort he makes to calm his near-shouting.

And there it is, isn’t it? Arthur stares down at the ground for a moment, watching the burnt-orange glow from the fire spill in a pulsing halo around it. He lifts the brim of his hat, brings a hand to his face to rub across his forehead. The energy needed for an argument such as this one just ain’t currently in him. Removing his hat completely, Arthur tosses it to the side. He feels his temper rising and exhales heavily, putting his head in both hands. “Not _this_ shit…”

Now, somewhere ‘round two weeks before baby Jack was born, John and Arthur had kissed– a stupid, idiotic impulse they'd both succumbed to. Arthur helping a stumbling John into his tent and both so drunk off their asses that Arthur couldn’t remember who’d kissed who first. Guess it didn’t actually matter now, anyway. Only mattered that it’d happened at all, ‘specially to John, it seemed. They hadn’t spoken of it after that night. Arthur certainly wouldn’t dare; a man could get shot or hanged for being that kinda bent, even if it were a drunken mistake. But there has been a strange rift growing between ‘em, of that Arthur has no doubt, and it is better this way maybe, he thinks. He’d also had the consideration that maybe… fatherhood could make a real man outta foolhardy Johnny Marston yet– if he’d just goddamn get his head out of his scrawny ass and accept it. Arthur had no plans of getting in the way of that. But of course, John was never very good at followin’ through with what he ought to.

The faded toes of John’s boots suddenly appear in Arthur’s line of sight as he continues to stare down at the sparse grass between his knees. “Yes, _this,_ you bastard!” John yells. “You mean to tell me, you really don’t think about it none? That you don’t…” He makes a frustrated sound, like he is warring with the truth he wants to speak, but is too ashamed to let it loose. That’s what is at the crux of this though, ain’t it? Their shared _shame._ John finds his words and continues on, but a hell of a lot quieter, “...that you don’t like to look at me?”

And Arthur certainly does look at him, now. His face might currently be twisted up in his ever-changing emotions of the night, but Arthur can see right through it.

At twenty-two, John has not yet been weathered by the world entirely in the way Arthur has, or Dutch and Hosea, or the once lovely Susan Grimshaw. Their lifestyle on the run as outlaws and all the hard livin’ John did on his own as a thieving street urchin, it has eroded him in its own way, though. For a young man, he has a prettiness to him which contrasts with the hardness of ‘im that Arthur slowly took silent notice of about five years back; his lashes a little too long beneath the heaviness of that angry brow of his, the strong jaw that bears a permanent shadow of stubble nowadays. Over the years, his features were always a little hidden behind grimy curtains of varying lengths of wild black hair. Seemed more like a comforting _armour_ of sorts than any real indifference for personal hygiene or care for his appearance. And John was always a gangly sort of kid, but once he hit nineteen or twenty, the baby fat still stubbornly clinging to his cheeks and jawline faded away, and Arthur knew he was rightly damned in an entirely new way than his usual condemnations.

“It ain’t about _lookin’_ at you. Trust me, I wish it were. I don’t reckon you know exactly what it is you’re askin’, Marston. The– the _repercussions_ of it.”

“But, I do!” John argues, because it is John, so of course he does. “Why you always gotta treat me like I’m just a dumb _kid_ who don’t know anything about nothin’? Dutch and Hosea brought me up just as good as you. Just worried I’m gonna _replace_ you or somethin’, I swear... When I don’t even want anything like that, Arthur. Jesus Christ…”

So maybe the kid had more brains than Arthur gave him credit for, afterall.

 _“Shut up,”_ Arthur drawls out and waves John off, hoping he just drops the subject with something new they can bicker over. “Just sit down, will you?”

John drops his cigarette at Arthur’s hip, stamps it out with a little twist of the toe of his boot and sits beside him, closer. “Why else would you have done it, huh? I know you like to rag on me about this or that, but then sometimes you treat me– _I don’t know!_ You’re goddamn confusing! You do this to Mary Gillis, too?”

That catches up Arthur a bit too quickly, but he does not let it show. He is both surprised and grateful John uses the name of a woman he only knows by as such for his comparison, and does not pick at Arthur’s slow-healing wounds with the utterance of a more familiar, recent one in Arthur’s history.

He chuckles, tries to keep all his emotions dammed up good. “Naw, she was just a whole lot smarter than you and knew when it was time to move on. Look, John… we– we was real drunk that night.” Arthur makes sure John knows how serious he is by keeping his voice even. “And I damn near had to carry you ‘cause you was stumblin’ around like a still-wet foal. Barely could walk a straight line, myself. And I guess I got a little– we both were out of line. I care about you, you know that, John. But we can’t carry on like that. You and I both know what they do to men who don’t…” _Love normal,_ Arthur almost says. “It was the booze, and we just lost our heads, okay?” He knows he is trying to direct and manipulate John’s agreement, but he can’t afford to feel sorry for it right now.

John is quiet and calm for a couple’a minutes, arms slung over his knees, fingers steepled as he seems to really think over what Arthur said. Then he suddenly looks at the ground around him, finds his flask and takes a few decent swigs, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and sucks his teeth. “If that’s so, if it was just us bein’ drunk, just _you_ bein’ drunk, why kiss _me,_ Arthur? There were young, pretty girls you coulda made a move on around camp that night. Sure, might had to’ve paid ‘em, but– why me, a _man?”_ He prods his chest, angry and too loud all goddamn over again.

“Oh Christ, John, would you just drop it, already?! If I'm rememberin’ correctly, which is to say, _I am,_ I was putting _you_ to bed and it was _you_ what pulled me down into your goddamn cot! Must’a thought I was a real rugged woman in the dark. I don't know, maybe my hair’s gettin’ a little long. You got awful taste when yer drunk, John– and don't just mean me.” Arthur tries to laugh at the barb he threw, but it comes out feeling forced.

He barely hears John make some murmured, sarcastic remark about carrying and _takin’_ him to bed. Arthur doesn’t have much faith left in a higher power, but if he is to suffer for the deeds he has done thusly, this must be some sort of Hell he is being subjected to.

John is starting to look a bit down in the mouth, and his shoulders slump forward as he picks at a small, fraying hole in his jacket sleeve. “Weren’t just no sloppy, quick kiss,” he grumbles. “You… you _really kissed me._ Like– like, I dunno! Like it maybe _meant_ somethin’, all right?”

It is in that moment of John’s quiet dejection that Arthur realises the unsaid layer beneath John’s question of why Arthur had kissed – or let himself be kissed by _– John_ specifically. The fact that they was both men was yet another layer that did not currently hold quite as much meaning as the rest. If Arthur is being perfectly honest, he feels that particular layer had holes in it, anyhow. Holes society and religion try patchin’ up with every excuse and threat of sinning they can find, but nevertheless...

“That why you wanted us to come out here so bad? Just me an’ you– to talk about this? You been stewin’ in this that long?” Arthur asks quietly. For a second, they are both distracted by a distant rumble of thunder, lighting up the murky outline of dark clouds with flashes of pale blue and thin brush strokes of white. He continues on when John simply nods. Arthur reaches out and places a hand on John's knee as he does so, shakes him a little. “Supposin’ it does mean something, John–” But John moves like the quick draw of a revolver and turns to crowd Arthur’s side, clutching at him with one clumsy, sweat-damp palm against the side of his neck. He kisses Arthur with enough force to almost bowl him right over, but Arthur catches himself and grips the back of John’s jacket; the action keeps him close, but holds him at bay just enough, too.

John pulls away, breathless and slightly shaking with nervous energy. He licks his lips, searches Arthur’s face, and Arthur isn’t sure who is supposed to speak first, because John kindly knocked any sense or words clear outta him. But it is a surprise all the same, that it's John who speaks first. _“This_ mean somethin’? I ain’t nearly had enough whiskey to say this one’s a mistake, y’know.”

Arthur nods and whispers, “And I’m damn near stone-cold sober. But you–”

“If you don’t– I ain’t gonna force you if this means absolutely _nothing_ to you, Arthur…” John begins to move away, but a case of goddamn monumental mindlessness strikes Arthur in that instant.

 _“The hell it does,”_ Arthur says quickly before pulling John back to him, kissing him again like some halfwitted fool.

He tries to memorise all of it this time: the pressure of John’s mouth on his, the taste of him when Arthur opens his mouth and John slides his tongue over the edges of his teeth; the way John stretches out one long leg next to Arthur’s waist while Arthur runs a hand over his thigh and squeezes. Despite the out-in-the-open nature of their current situation, John shows an admirable – or thoughtless, more like – lack of shame, moving closer and arranging his limbs so that he is almost straddling Arthur’s lap in a lackadaisical manner. And perhaps it is a shared spell Arthur finds himself under which makes him grip John behind the knees to roughly tug him even closer. The same spell moving his arms, hands, and fingers to help John take off his heavy jacket; to pull down the suspenders from his rounded shoulders, all the while drinking in every all-too-eager sound John makes deep in his throat while his fidgety hands get to bein’ busy with Arthur’s own layers of clothing.

John only manages to get Arthur’s gun belt unbuckled from his hips and his jacket rolled down his shoulders a little ways before it starts pissing rain on them with a suddenness that catches them both off guard with a start. “Well… on second thought...” Arthur chuckles, looks up at the cloud-caked night sky, then smiles back at John; John with those too-long lashes catching raindrops, his confused, wary stare. Arthur looks at John until he pulls his jacket back up, raising the collar around Arthur’s neck like a fretful little mother hen. Arthur feels a droplet of rain roll down his neck at the same moment one trails beside John’s nose towards his mouth like a tear.

He leans forward to kiss John again, and they get carried away again, distracting themselves from the chill of the rain as it continues to drench their clothes and plaster their hair to their faces. Arthur slides his hand down the inside of John's thigh, feeling the wet clench of denim until his gloved palm meets the warmth and hardness between John's legs. Arthur makes a low moan and presses down the heel of his hand as John tightly grabs at his arms and sucks in a breath through his nose.

He memorises this, too.

John breathes heavily with Arthur, but slow and steady, lips barely brushing. He turns his head and presses a wet cheek against Arthur’s, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of Arthur’s head while Arthur enjoys the slight tremble of John’s legs in response to the teasing drag of his hand against the growing tightness of John’s jeans. But they are finally forced to part when it starts to storm in earnest– an angered, rolling thunder coming ever closer, and the rain, now falling in sharp sheets of a needlepoint downpour.

“Shit... never got the damn bags… _from the horses,”_ Arthur groans irritatedly as he remembers, and John moves quick away from him, gathering his jacket, hat, and flask from the puddling ground without a word. He tosses them into the mouth of his tent as they both scramble towards the horses, working quick to remove their saddlebags. Arthur’ll have to give Boadicea an extra carrot or two once they get back to the main camp, and a good brushin’ down to make up for havin’ to leave her saddled in this kinda weather. He hugs his provision-laden bags close to his body to shield ‘em from anymore rain and jogs over to his tent, just beating John to his own.

Half bent over, about to throw his bags through the mouth of his tent, Arthur makes the grand mistake of looking back in the direction of John. Arthur often liked to think ‘imself good at escape plans, but apparently not where they concerned a particular drowned muskrat, starin’ at him with a look of lost longing. They lock eyes, and John immediately looks away like he’s been caught out doing somethin’ wrong. He’s just standing there like an idiot in the hazy mist of the rainshower, getting soggier by the second, bringing a hand through his soaked hair to slick it back away from his face. But then John goes to push aside the opening of his tent, turns to head in, and Arthur’s mind expeditiously makes a decision for him; he blindly tosses his own saddlebags to land somewhere in the dark of his tent, then lets his legs carry him to John with a few swift strides.

Arthur snatches John by the elbow, pulling him up to grab him by the face and kiss him with a fierceness that startles them both. John makes a growling moan low in his throat, staggering back a little ways, but he hauls Arthur in closer, fingers clawing at the wet clothing now plastered to Arthur’s back. Arthur can see the flash of lightning behind his eyelids before thunder cracks loudly; the white-hot light of it that mimics perfectly what John has stirred in him.

He lets John lead him forward into his tent. They stumble a little, clamouring to duck and move into its dry cover, all the while not really willing to move away from each other. But, Arthur wastes no time pulling off his boots and socks, starting a pile in one cramped corner, where soon his rawhide jacket is heavily thrown, as well. Of course, John would be fumbling with shaking fingers to light a match for his small lantern. Arthur smacks at his shin with the back of his hand and John jumps, his glare almost missable before the match light illuminating his face is snuffed out with the quick shake of his hand.

Arthur begins to tug playfully at one of John’s boots until his hands are pushed away and John removes his own boots himself. Conversationally, Arthur says, “Really think that’s smart, the lantern? Don’t know ‘bout you, but I ain’t tryin’ to be burned to death while– well.” He pulls his gloves off with mild difficulty, then starts unbuttoning his shirt, but is quickly interrupted by John taking advantage of the dim light of the sputtering campfire in order to surprise Arthur by pushin’ him down onto his back.

“Think you’re liable to roll over onto it or something?” John asks with amusement in his voice. Arthur pushes back the jagged dark frame of hair around John’s face as he takes over where Arthur left off on the buttons of his shirt, goin’ after the ones on his union suit too, as soon as he tangles Arthur’s shirt up and over his head.

Arthur sighs as he lets John continue the assault on his clothing as if it offended him. “I’m saying... I don’t want a _hindrance_ in what I’m planning on doing next with you.” John’s hands still momentarily, but Arthur continues, “We can tie the flap of the tent up a little ways more if you wanna see so damn bad, but if the wind picks up, don’t go bitchin’ about getting more soaked.”

John shuts him up by kissing him, by guiding Arthur’s hand to the fly of his jeans. Arthur can take a hint.

A bit more groping and fumbling, and they are both divested of their union suits to the waist. Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn’t more than eager to peel John out of his jeans finally. 

“I do, y’know,” John says in a rough whisper against Arthur’s jaw. “Wanna see you… Fire out there’s barely gonna last much longer through this kinda rain.” He kisses Arthur sweetly beneath his ear.

Arthur pushes him off a little. “Yer a real brat, you know that, Marston? I swear to _God,_ if you knock that shit over…”

 _“I won’t._ I won’t, all right?” In the darkness, Arthur can just make out the placating gesture John makes. He gets up onto his knees and paws around for his discarded matchbox. Soon, the tent is awash in warm yellow light. John lowers the flame of the lantern a small amount. Stark black shadows cut across his lithe frame and the canvas walls surrounding them. “I’ll keep the flame low, okay? And– And I’ll stick it over here to one corner– _not too close to the wall where wind might knock it over,”_ he pointedly reassures Arthur of his sensibility. Well, he is just full a’ surprises tonight. “Then we can just, uhm. I’ll move my bedroll and blanket over this way more, yeah?”

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and watches through his fingers while John fumbles around self-consciously ‘til he seems mostly satisfied with the arrangement of things. “Lay down and get undressed,” Arthur tiredly orders, and John looks up at him like a spooked deer. He guesses it’s due time to take matters into his own hands.

He crawls towards John, gets him to lie down with gentle hands pressed to his shoulder and chest. “Just listen to me, all right?” John nods. Arthur can think of a couple’a ways to keep ‘im shut up. 

Fingers tucked into the fabric of John’s union suit and waistband of his jeans, he pulls hard to strip John down of both, tellin’ him to lift his hips when necessary. John’s modesty is an endearing shock in its suddenness as he goes faintly crimson along his cheeks and neck, his cock hovering hard above his belly, exposed in its dark thatch of hair. Arthur sidetracks John’s newfound embarrassment with his mouth over his, a deepening kiss while he gets John completely naked beneath him. 

He feels John’s fingers plucking at the buttons of his fly, tracing over his stomach, his waist, like his brain can’t decide what he wants first. He gets Arthur’s trousers undone, and shoves his hand down past open buttons of his union suit without much more preamble, fingers curling tight around Arthur’s dick, makin’ to get him off quick and rough. The dampness of Arthur’s skin from his rain-soaked clothes makes an uncomfortable friction with John’s calloused hand, but even still, Arthur cannot help the groan he lets out into John’s mouth at the simple sensation and knowledge of John’s hands on him like this at all.

But Arthur is barely hard anymore thanks to the sheer awkwardness of the situation’s lead up. ‘Spose he shoulda guessed. Only they could mess things up like they were. Perhaps swallowing John down like he wants to may be just the trick in stoking that heat low in his belly again. He stills John’s hand with his own grasping around John’s wrist, removes it from his pants to the questioning, worried sound John then makes. “What’s wrong?” he asks Arthur, dark grey eyes practically black now. His gaze darts around Arthur’s face, worry clearly growing into some kinda anticipatory dread.

“Nothin’,” Arthur reassures him and kisses below one prominent collarbone. “Ain’t not a thing wrong,” he murmurs into John’s skin, working his way down his body to map out the shape of him. He has done this before, with shameful stolen glances on riverbanks under the pretense of makin’ sure John didn’t get himself drowned while they bathed. But this is a wholly different kind of admiration. This is wanted, _returned_ even, and so personal that even if Arthur’s eyes were not able to have their fill of John, his hands could paint a detailed picture in his mind just fine. John’s flesh is not yet a roadmap of storytellin’ scars, but Arthur appreciates each one his mouth and fingertips do sketch; some he remembers more vividly from actually bein’ there, others he finds a morbid curiosity over, but Arthur hopes dearly – and in vain, he is more than aware – that this collection of pale pink slashes and puckered marks does not grow to a boastful sum.

John’s hands find their way into Arthur’s hair as soon as he sets to mouthing at the little hollow of one hip bone. He follows the start of coarse curls until he can lick a slow line up the long length of John, and the quiet, broken sound he makes is worth more than all the gold in the world to Arthur. He does it again, addin’ in his hand to reveal John’s cockhead from his foreskin, laps up what he leaks and swirls his tongue around the tip until John’s legs shake and his fingers pull harder at Arthur’s hair. It’s then that Arthur decides to get a full taste of ‘im. John’s mouth goes firing off with a string of expletives and cut-off moans each time Arthur bobs his head up and down, swallowing when he can. Hissing varying octaves of _‘shit’_ and _‘fuck’_ in between panted breaths. Arthur makes sure he is torturously slow, if only because he knows John likes to rush through damn near everything.

He could get off, just like this. With John’s cock in his mouth, watching his back arch almost imperceptibly in the wash of lantern light, the way his eyes stay mostly screwed shut, teeth making marks in his bottom lip that Arthur is surprised don’t bleed. Arthur reaches a hand into his pants to pull his own stiff dick out, working his hand at a pace to match the one he has set for John’s undoing. When Arthur groans loudly around John’s cock, John must come to his wits a little. He gets Arthur to lift his mouth off ‘im with a few frantic presses of his fingers to Arthur’s jaw and chin.

“Wait, _wait._ Hang on a sec.” The words are rasped out urgently, and Arthur stops working himself to sit up on his knees, holding his pants closed and watching as John reaches for one of his saddlebags.

Whatever he’s looking for is not in the first bag, causin’ him to swear under his breath and become more hurried in his search. Arthur is about to ask him what the hell is so important he _find_ and why on earth it can’t _wait_ when John finally lifts out a squat glass jar. As the flickering light hits it, Arthur can tell by its opaque contents, it’s petroleum jelly. His stomach suddenly feels strange, but his dick twitches with reinvigorated interest.

There is an air of false confidence about John now. He practically squares his shoulders after he sets the jar down near the head of his bedroll and crawls on his knees towards Arthur. His hands smooth over Arthur’s shoulders, come to rest at the back of his head and neck. Something in John has gentled.

“John, we don’t have to do nothin’, you know that, right?”

“You like it slow, huh?” John ignores him in favour of questioning Arthur with a quiet, wondering intonation like he’s already figured him out. Like he pinned something down that was part of the puzzle of Arthur. Arthur isn’t going to ruin his moment by tellin’ John that he didn’t care overly much about the pace of things, but that it was _John_ he wanted to savour, because he knows damn well this is something fleeting. Something they can’t go back to once tomorrow comes.

So instead of speaking his mind, Arthur only admits, “I like whatever you wanna give.”

John looks a little taken aback by that, by Arthur giving in easily to whatever John’s whims may end up bein’. But it is the only truth Arthur can give him right now, in the soft dark cocoon of the tent. This secret, tethered space they’ve made.

“Yeah… yeah, well okay,” John whispers, barely audible against the thrum of rain guttering down outside. He moves hesitantly to kiss Arthur, presses the line of his body, from thigh, to hip, to chest, against him. Every movement of John’s lips seems careful, cautious, and Arthur just can’t settle for that. He cups John’s face a little roughly, presses his other hand to John’s lower back to bring him closer still, to kiss him deeper. Slides his tongue over John’s with purpose and lets him hear what it does to him when their cocks bump, when John’s hardness is pressed up against his hip.

John shifts them around a bit, lightly coaxing Arthur to lie down. After that, it seems John gives up on reining ‘imself in, and Arthur cannot find it in him to justify a complaint for it. Not after John damn near attacks him, their teeth clacking with the rough severity John is kissing him with. His teeth catch on Arthur’s bottom lip with a harsh tug before he soothes the bite with a softer kiss.

Arthur is only given space when John grabs the jar of petroleum jelly. The question in his mind of what John means to have them do _exactly_ is answered as he watches John slicking up one hand with a generous amount, then he leans back over Arthur on one forearm, straddling one of his thighs. He lowers himself close so that the warmth of his skin seeps into Arthur’s, and wraps his messy hand around them both. They each release a hushed moan at the feeling, neither being able to keep entirely quiet once John starts moving that hand, twisting his wrist at just the right times to drive Arthur mad. He begins to thrust his hips in a steady rhythm, dragging his cock against Arthur’s with every motion of his body. Arthur twines his fingers into John’s wet hair, yanking his head back and groaning along when John does. He kisses and nips at the exposed curve of John's throat, exhaling his pleasure against the rapid wardrum-beat of John’s pulse. He breathes his name, clutches John closer still.

John lets out a sound that’s close to a gravelly whine and ducks his head down to quickly kiss Arthur. “Christ… _fuck, Arthur.”_

“That’s it, John,” Arthur encourages softly. He smooths his hands down John’s back to grab at his ass, helping drive the motion of his thrusts. He listens to the storm outside, the intermittent flap of the waxed tent canvas in the wind. Works on focusing every sense of his to the feeling of John all around him and the occasional wet sound of his hand.

John rests his forehead against Arthur’s. “I ain’t– I ain’t gonna last much longer.”

And honestly, Arthur doesn’t think he can, either. “That’s good, that’s fine,” he practically babbles into John’s mouth in a sloppy kiss. “Go faster then, go on.”

When John jerks them faster, tighter, Arthur splays the leg not tucked between John’s a little further. His own hips make a stuttered attempt at meeting John’s shortening thrusts. The pressure in his groin builds and he throws his head back on a gasped moan; John biting and kissing his way along Arthur’s jaw and chin, teeth catching on his stubble. John’s moans are getting closer together, more exhausted, and Arthur knows they are both so damn _close._ John curls over Arthur’s body, sweaty forehead pressed into his sternum, breaths coming hot and quick over Arthurs skin.

 _“Goddamn. That’s it, c’mon, John.”_ One of Arthur’s hands slides back into John’s hair, and he embraces John’s shoulders tightly with his other arm. His back bows him forward as he comes with a suffocating intensity, hugging John to his chest and taking shallow, gulping breaths.

“Fuck, _fuck! Oh fuck,”_ Arthur hears John grit out as he quickly adds to the mess spilling over onto Arthur’s stomach. The wet slickness of their combined release heightens the end of their peak, almost making Arthur feel over-sensitive as John chokes out a few more quiet moans against his throat, and then his hand finally slows.

The sounds of their breathing evening out compete with the patter of rain that seems itself to have eased up somewhat. Arthur stretches his legs as John settles his weight down onto him with a half-hearted apology. The desire to fill the loud silence strains on Arthur’s nerves. He doesn’t much want to move, but he doesn’t want to think, neither. Too many possible consequences to ruminate over for his liking now. The contented sigh John breathes out is the last thing he can take.

Arthur taps John’s shoulder. “Let me– You got a rag or somethin’ we can uh, clean up with?” He tries to sit up so that John gets the message.

“Uhm, yeah, yeah… Hang on.” 

John ends up producing his wet button-down shirt, scrunched in a wrinkled wad. Arthur thinks to protest until John is wiping them both down before he can get one word out. “I got a spare shirt. ‘S’fine,” John murmurs. Arthur’s face must’ve given away his feelings on the matter.

He listens mutely to John go on speaking about laying some of their clothes out beside his bedroll, in hopes they’ll air-dry a little overnight. John’s voice is a touch huskier than normal, and Arthur surmises he’ll have a lot of etched memories in his mind for lonely nights– memories of just why John sounds that way currently, and the way that voice sounded moaning out ‘is name.

John searches in his pack and pulls out a cigarette tin. Arthur’s never seen it before. Looks to be silver, with a swirl of engravings along the edge of the lid. He wonders what rich fool’s pocket John picked it from and when. He don’t do that much in recent years, on account of him not bein’ a wiry child that can slink mostly unnoticed through crowds anymore. He offers Arthur a smoke, and Arthur takes it gratefully, trying his best to ignore the fact they're both still bare-assed, the tent smelling like their sex.

John strikes a match and beckons Arthur closer. He leans in, cigarette between his lips, so John can light both their cigarettes. Arthur is learning that John's coyness is in his ability to act casual after situations that call for something much more. What exactly that more is, Arthur couldn't say right now.

They sit cross-legged, knees touching. John lets a tendril of smoke snake slowly from between his reddened lips.

“Well, didn't catch nothin’ on fire, so–” Arthur tries to say, just something stupid and _meaningless_ to fill the tense air with anything other than what's passed between them, but John leans forward, hand on Arthur's thigh, and kisses him softly. He pulls away, but leaves his hand, staring at Arthur pointedly. 

_“John–”_

“Arthur.”

They don't say anything more before bedding down for the night.

In trying to share John's bedroll, they lie close, John's thin woolen blanket just barely covering them both. Muscles feelin’ all kinds of twitchy, Arthur tries to relax himself while he lies on his back, having John snug his body up along Arthur's side, his head laid on his shoulder. John brings an arm across Arthur's chest, rests his hand on the curve of his neck. Arthur tries not to think too much on the automatic movements that have him hugging John to him with one arm around his ribs, but his mind is full to bursting, and he can't imagine how sleep will come to him peacefully after this night.

“This doesn't go beyond tonight,” Arthur says into the top of John's head.

“I won't say nothing.”

Arthur exhales a tired breath. “It _can't._ You know I don't just mean speakin’ about it, neither.” 

“What're you sayin’?” John's voice is incredulous. He tries lifting his head, but Arthur lays him back down easily.

“Exactly what I mean. Shouldn't’ve happened in the first place. You got a _son_ now, John. I don't care if you an’ Abigail can't keep your heads straight long enough to actually get along, but that don't erase the fact that you got a _boy to raise.”_

John scoffs. “Jack _ain't mine,_ Jesus Christ…”

“We ain't arguin’ about it. Any a’ this. There ain't a place for… for what we is. You got a chance not many in our way of living get to take. A chance at some kinda... _normalcy.”_

“Like _you_ had?” John says it with bitter sarcasm, finally says it out of meanness like Arthur expected from him earlier. But it’s without the intent to cut Arthur as deeply as John does, and Arthur knows it. Knows John. He's young, prone to arguing his way out of any situation he finds to be too uncomfortable to face down, which is most. And in his immaturity he has not yet shed, sometimes the weapons of words he chooses are viciously sharp, and accurate in their aim.

“Don't you _dare,_ John…” Arthur warns, words fighting past the tightness in his chest and throat. John goes deathly still and quiet, likely understanding the depths of the two still-fresh-enough-to-bleed wounds he just picked at. Arthur squeezes him close with both arms, maybe not with forgiveness, but an _understanding,_ and John lets him, tucking his head up beneath Arthur's chin.

Arthur tries to give in to his own selfishness and enjoy the presence of John's body heat, each solid point of contact where their bare skin meets.

The storm was a quick-moving one, and in its wake is a renewed stillness in the atmosphere. The faint rumblings of thunder can be heard in the distance, and Boadicea and Duncan nicker outside amongst themselves as if in relief. 

With the lantern blown out, Arthur's eyes adjust to the darkness. He stares up at the peak of the tent, willing himself to doze off and ignore the thoughts screaming to be heard inside his head. His fingers trace idle, swirling patterns along John's shoulder, over the chapped knuckles of the hand he's got clenched over Arthur's heart. At some point, John has dropped off to sleep, his breathing comin’ out in rough puffs through his mouth. 

When Arthur finally finds his own calmness that is enough to usher in a shallow slumber, his last thoughts are upon a question, wondering just what kinda repentance he owes to get 'imself outta this kind of Hell.

Come morning, Arthur wakes to the sounds of John quietly speaking with the horses; he scolds Duncan for his irritability, tellin’ him he shouldn't act that way in front of a ‘lady.’ Arthur lazily rubs his hands up and down his face, effectively gettin’ rid of the pathetic smile that managed to sneak its way there. He sits up, immediately noticing his clothes missing, 'cept for his grimy union suit laid out on the ground. The flannel is still damp as he tugs it on and steps out of John's tent barefoot while doing up a last few buttons on his chest. He takes note of his jacket hung on the entrance's tent pole. It's completely dry and warmed by the sun, so he throws it on.

Arthur clears his throat, as it seems John is too busy brushing down Boadicea to have noticed him. He always did favour Arthur's mare over his own horse. Personally, Arthur felt John and Duncan's personalities matched perfectly – both grumpy, ornery young things – and that's part of what helped him pick 'im out with John a couple years back. Perhaps therein lay the problem.

John turns his head, barely catching Arthur's eye, and goes back to taking care of the horses. He might’ve had a fondness for Boadicea, but John didn't necessarily have a fondness for _borses,_ nor playin’ stable boy, which was making this scene a little odd.

“'Mornin’,” Arthur tries to greet him amicably.

“Coffee’s on if you want some, but you know my brewin’ ain't worth shit, so… drink up at yer own risk, I guess.”

John’s hat is sat on his head down tight, tipped forward to shadow his eyes conveniently. Sleeping on wet hair has errant waves framing his face a bit wildly this morning. His pale-coloured union suit is splotched with dirt, and his jeans are slung low on his narrow waist, slightly weighed down by his thick gun belt. He looks a right mess, but Arthur can't tear his eyes away. He curses himself as he watches the way John's broad shoulders move beneath the tension of his suspenders, the way one hip cocks out as he stands, checkin’ Duncan's tack.

“Sure. Uh, thank you.” Arthur looks around their small camp while pouring himself a cup of John's muddy coffee, quietly grimacing at the first sip. The extreme bitterness alone is enough to wake Arthur up. “You weren't kiddin’...” he grumbles. His eyes continue to wander 'round camp, and Arthur notices his clothing slung over his tent canvas, his boots with his socks half tucked in 'em set out, too. Everything taken out of John's tent to dry out by the morning sun. Arthur walks over to his tent, pulls on his socks, which are still a little wet at the toes, but he's dealt with worse, and stomps his feet into his boots. He leaves everything else for now to continue drying as much as possible. They can't linger too long here, but it's certainly better than nothing.

Arthur saunters off a little ways to relieve himself, and upon approaching the camp on his way back, he sees John starting to roll up his bedroll, gatherin’ up his things. A cigarette dangles loosely from his mouth.

Before he can get busy thoughts about John again, Arthur goes to fetch some wrapped jerky from one of his saddlebags. He checks his pocket watch– nearly nine o’clock. Once he walks the few paces to the weak campfire, he crouches in front of it, gnawing on the venison jerky as he staves off the slight morning chill from his hands to keep 'em from aching. He realises John must've gone to the treelines surrounding the small meadow, gathering burnable branches dry as he could find 'em.

Staring into the fire and rain-packed ash, Arthur sees the yet burned remnants of John's soiled, deep blue shirt from last night. _Son of a bitch…_

“How long you been up?” he asks John conversationally as he can.

John is now in the midst of breaking down his tent. His cigarette is a short stub between his fingers, which he soon flicks away. “Long enough. Few hours, maybe.”

Arthur is surprised at his answer. “Really? Huh.” John was never an early riser. It was always a pain in the ass tryin’ to wake him up to get to doin’ his chores around camp when he was younger, and as he got older, that got no better. And it was near hopeless if John had been drinking the night prior. “You uh, you didn't have to do that, you know.” Arthur motions towards where the horses are hitched, even though John barely offers a glance at him through his packing. “Boadicea, I mean. I woulda handled her.”

“Wanted to.”

John moves around the camp with a dangerous, nervy quiet about him. His answers are curt, and he can't seem to look at Arthur for more than two seconds.

This was a goddamn _mistake._

“Figured you could use the rest,” John offers. “Reckon we get goin’ soon, though. I'm gonna scout out past the trees to see if I spot any game. Saw quite a few doe grazin’ earlier this morning. Maybe they didn't move on too far.” He shrugs and heads over to his horse. Mounting up, he adds, “Be back in a little,” then spurs Duncan into a light trot.

Arthur just sits there, feeling poleaxed and like the biggest fool this world has known.

While John is gone, he dresses and gathers up his own things, getting their camp completely broken down. He has a smoke and waits beside his horse while she tears at the grass beneath them, and stares out onto the land stretched before him, working out how he's going to act around John the rest of their short trip, or how John might continue to act around _him._

The sky soars in a vivid, pale indigo, flecked with smatterings of birds and wisps of cloud tucked up into the canvas of its vastness. A light breeze carries the sound of new leaves shaking against each other, wildflowers swaying in time on colourful currents. Soon enough, he and John’ll be leaving the verdant prairie behind to head back down past Blackwater, to sparse and dusty plains where the colour of the world is drained out in tones of sepia silhouetting civilisation.

When John returns after the better part of twenty minutes later, Arthur's heart and stomach clench at the sight of his approach. He knows he must put on the same act John insists on currently. Put a distance between them.

But it’s John who pulls that distance taut. They bag two healthy looking doe, and Arthur manages to get a rabbit on their ride back. All the while, John had been uncharacteristically calm and poised, silently staring down the sights of his rifle. The limited conversation they manage to have before they hit camp by the afternoon is missing its usual casualness, making Arthur feel like he rode out with his brother-in-arms, but returned with a stranger.

Dutch is proud, pats John on the shoulder, but eyes him warily when John does not preen. Looks to Arthur for answers he does not have, and cannot rightly speak, when John walks off to his tent to be alone.

“Aw, you know him, Dutch,” Arthur tells him once out of earshot of John’s tent. “He’s… probably just tired. Could be a shootout in camp and he’d rather turn over and sleep it off if it’s before noon than help. He did… he did fine, though.”

Dutch grins. “He is young, that’ll wear itself off soon enough though, Arthur. The boy _does_ have a lot on his mind, of late, as we all know,” he reminds Arthur with a knowing look. “But maybe it’s good for him, to get out and put himself to work for the good of the camp, in… other ways than the usual. Gives him greater responsibility. _Idle hands_ and all that…” He sits at their rickety bench, resting back against the table and pulls a fat cigar from his breast pocket, cutting off the end with a small boot knife.

Chuckling, Arthur adds, “But the ‘devil’s work’s’ all we ever do, ain’t it, Dutch?”

Dutch smiles tightly before lighting a match, holding the cigar to his mouth. He takes a long puff, studying Arthur all the while. When he exhales his cloud of smoke, he quietly tells Arthur from behind the haze of it, “An ungodly man diggeth up evil– and in his lips,” he pauses with a dramatic flair that only Dutch can quite pull off so well. “Is as a _burning fire.”_

* * *

For three days after, John doesn't speak more than one or two words of assent to Arthur, mostly mumbled if any exchange passes between them at all, and usually when Arthur's addressing a few people John just so happens to be included in with. Other than that, John goes out if his way to avoid Arthur's presence like he's got some sort of awful sickness he ain't tryna catch. Dutch watches them like a clever fox, gears turning. But he does not question his sons. Don't push nor pry for once. Hosea, on the other hand, just tries gettin’ them together around the same campfire at the same time for storytelling or poetry reading; John usually leaving in a miserable, drunken huff to the darkened privacy of his tent after ten minutes or so. Hosea just sighs with a shrug and a sympathetic look in his eyes, levels his gaze across the fire at Arthur, wordlessly askin’ him not to go after John and pitch into him for his disrespect.

Because _it’s John,_ and _he’s still young,_ and _he’ll learn._ Arthur cannot recall bein’ the kinda young that John apparently is.

At the end of those three days, Arthur wakes up to the camp in a mild tizzy; his fathers goin’ on about John being missing. Not a note nor personal effect of much importance left behind– only things what couldn't easily be carried on horseback, it seems.

They don't see or hear from John for damn near a year's passing.


	2. Foxglove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the face of John's absence, Arthur struggles with coming to terms with his affections for him, and the guilt intertwined.

_Dig a hole that goes down deep in the ground_   
_And when the time comes calling,_   
_And as the earth all shudders_   
_At the pounding of the feet of the four horsemen_

_You aren't safe under the earth_   
_Hiding your actions covered in dirt_   
_Like a snake shedding its skin,_   
_If you fess up you can start all over again_

\- Murder by Death, "One More Notch"

* * *

In that year of John disappearing himself, Arthur becomes John's quiet irritability, his drunken ranting, and maybe a bit of his immature recklessness, too. Perhaps Arthur simply finds himself trying his best to outshine John; the irreproachable “golden boy” with youth Arthur no longer has on his side, and the conditioned privilege that comes with being as a second child. The one who could do no wrong in the eyes of Dutch and Hosea ever since the three of them had rescued 'im as a young orphan. John is seemingly absolved even amidst the selfishness of his current abandonment.

Arthur's a little more unfair to Abigail as well, words said with unworthy venom whenever he sees her looking all forlorn-like or when she asks members of the gang returning from rides out of camp if they heard or seen anythin’ promising.

One evening, while he's sitting out by the small scout fire, minding his business with a mean bottle of ‘shine cradled in his lap, Abigail approaches Arthur, her eyes darting about like an animal on high alert. She gathers her skirts and crouches beside him. _“Arthur?”_ she whispers loudly in a way that suggests she thinks Arthur's attention might be busy elsewhere. And maybe it is. He turns his head to her slowly, and with the irritated set of his eyes on her frowning, pretty face, Arthur makes known his annoyance at being bothered at all. “And what can I do for you?” he grumbles, too tired and too close to shitfaced to really put out much offence in his voice.

“Look, I–” Abigail's eyes rove around in a nervous fashion again, looking for eavesdroppers, most likely. And in a close encampment like they keep, where nosing into other's business is a personal favourite past time for most, Arthur finds that kind of discretion a hilariously wasted effort. “I know you and John were– _are_ close. That maybe, well… Dutch seems to think he's definitely coming back, but–”

“Miss Roberts,” Arthur sighs out. “I suggest you spit out whatever it is you really mean to say before either of us gets a little older. Somethin’ _you_ might be able to afford, but I rightly can’t.”

Her face hardens at that, eyes growing more determined. “Since you was so _close_ and all,” Now, through his drunkenness, Arthur finds her emphasis on the word “close” particularly curious. “I figured you had some insight maybe, into why John took off like he did. And if Dutch and Hosea are so damn sure he ain't in no kinda _trouble,_ I figured maybe he'd said something to one’a you that you ain’t tellin’. Dutch don’t ever say why it is he thinks John is just gonna ‘show up’ one day. If anything, John had to’ve said _something_ to you especially, Arthur! You two were attached at the hip before! And for Christ's sake, he left _his son_ behind! It's been months!”

She looks truly worried and frantic, and Arthur pities her about as much as he pities himself. Maybe even more, considering she is a young mother after all, throwin’ in with a lot such as theirs. A mother who had the poor logic of pinning the paternity of her baby boy on somebody as bad a bet as John fuckin’ _Marston._ Not that her other options were pillars of responsibility and good in a man. Arthur feels a twisted sort of bitter jealousy burn in his gut. But he briefly thinks about the strange pride he'd have felt if Abigail had made the same claims on Arthur, though they both knew that was not possible– certain… timelines considered and all. The same excuse John has used time and again for his denial of baby Jack, come to think of it. 

But John had made himself blind to the opportunity of _real_ family he'd been given, the gift of it, whether Jack really was his or not. John knew… _he goddamn knew_ what personal misery Arthur lived in upon findin’ his own son was in the ground, and Eliza… Arthur gulps down a stinging mouthful from his bottle before he sets himself off too far down that old road. He knows John can’t be made or forced into what Arthur tried so hard to be, and failed at so horribly– but even still, John has just taken it all for granted before even _tryin’._ Pushed it away entirely. Hell, actually ran from it even, the ignorant fool...

Jealousy quickly turns into hot anger at John again, for running off and putting this kinda bullshit in their minds to begin with. But John ain't here to _be_ angry at, God damn him.

“See, I really must correct you,” Arthur starts, turns his body as much towards Abigail as he can manage before he feels like he's swaying. He braces himself with one hand on the ground, the other still held tight to the bottle of ‘shine. “If John and I were _so close_ , as you say, he would have informed me of his leavin’ and the _why_ of it. But seein’s as he did _neither,_ I am very much in the same boat as you, _Miss Roberts,_ with just as many answers. Which is _none,_ just so we're clear. Now, if we're finished here, I've got some drinking I would very much like to continue with.”

Abigail rolls her eyes, sighing, and the whole of her quickly deflates with it, posture falling to something small and defeated. She turns away from the fire, likely ready to take her leave of him, but Arthur's bitterness has become toxic in his veins, and the healthy dose of moonshine he's imbibed has made it downright _acidic._

Arthur lights a cigarette, a little sloppier than he'd like. “Look, I think you might do us all a favour, and save your energy for somethin’ more _useful_ than pining after _John._ If he ain't been kidnapped, arrested, or something of the like, he better goddamn _hope_ his corpse is rotting in a field somewhere with a bullet in that empty skull a’ his, because if I _ever_ see his pathetic, sorry–” 

_“Oh, stop it!”_ Abigail interrupts Arthur with a well-deserved slap. She stands fully, pointing a finger down at Arthur as she hisses, “You don't _mean_ that! And you're one to talk about _pinin’_ , _Arthur Morgan!_ Pot callin’ the kettle black, ain't that what they say?” Arthur is too stunned to respond. Then Abigail adds with a smile, even though it’s watery, “I will admit though, you were right when you said you and I were in the same boat.” She lets out a small, ironic laugh as she calmly smoothes down her skirts. “Here I thought maybe that's why you'd at least _understand._ Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got somethin’ more _useful_ to be doin’, like tending to my son.”

She storms off, the few folk still awake unsurprisingly looking their way, then looking real busy when Arthur catches each of their stares. He finishes his cigarette and lets himself pass out beside the fire, feeling much like the cold, hard dirt he lies upon.

In the early afternoon, Arthur makes an attempt at routine; he gathers food from the stew pot, fills his tin cup with coffee even though his stomach protests. He’s been avoiding the sun somethin’ fierce since he woke with it, brain pounding behind his eyes. Something he cannot go avoiding any longer today, however, is young Miss Roberts.

Several feet away, Abigail passes by him, Jack bundled close to her chest. Arthur swallows a disgusting mouthful of his pride before he even thinks about touching his lunchtime slop.

He calls out to her, hesitant though he may be even as her name leaves his mouth, and Abigail turns to him with a bored, emotionless expression.

“Listen,” As Arthur approaches her and begins to speak he can sense Abigail almost steeling herself. It makes his stomach roil and heightens his disgust at himself. “I'm… I'm gonna talk to Dutch and Hosea. _Today._ About lookin’ for John,” Arthur finishes, quiet.

Abigail supports baby Jack with one arm, just a squirmin’, whimperin’ little thing that he is, and raises her other hand to shield her eyes from the sun glaring down past the slight crag scooped out over their encampment.

“You know Dutch is talkin’ about movin’ us again,” she tells him. “Further west?”

Arthur nods. Dutch feels they are too close to too many people, and Arthur would be inclined to agree. It feels like they’ve been biding their time until some O’Driscoll Boys come sniffin’ around, anyway, bringin’ the law on their tails. “I know. Wants to... head towards a place called the Aurora Basin or some such. More game, more cover for us out that way.”

“You gotta find ‘im before then, Arthur. Or– or hold the gang off from movin’, I don’t know…” 

Sighing, Arthur answers, “Okay. But, I ain’t in the business of makin’ promises I don’t know if I can keep, just so you know.”

Abigail hefts Jack up in both arms again as it seems their hushed conversation has unfortunately woken him. “Don’t do it for _me,”_ Abigail says suddenly after peeking beneath the thin cloth that is tucked around Jack’s pudgy face. She then looks at Arthur pointedly, telling him, “Not for _you.”_ And Arthur looks at the baby wriggling in her arms and understands Abigail’s point perfectly.

Before Arthur goes lookin’ for either of his fathers, he ends up choking down a bit more of his bitter pride with a heavy dosing of sympathy and guilt, bringing Abigail some of Pearson’s venison stew, even though Arthur waits like an idiot to ask if she’s hungry when he’s already presenting the bowl to her. She nods, taking it gratefully with a small smile, and he offers to grab Susan or Mary-Beth ‘imself to briefly watch baby Jack so she can eat undisturbed for the moment. It is a poor peace offering, but she seems thankful, and it is all Arthur has the means to give right now.

When Arthur finds Dutch, which is never typically hard (seein’s as the man is always a passive shadow silhouetted in his tent, or a preachin’ man up on his metaphorical soapbox), he has his nose buried in a book, elbow propped on one knee crossed over the other leg while he sits on the edge of his cot, clearly absorbed in his text. He holds a burned out pipe, and gestures Arthur closer with it when he breaks Dutch’s concentration with the humble clearing of his throat.

“And what can I help you with, my boy?” Dutch queries him brightly.

Arthur removes his hat and ducks into the tent, feelin’ much like a small child suddenly.

“Well,” Arthur smoothes a hand back through his shaggy hair. “it’s about John.” The brightness from Dutch’s eyes fades a little.

He lays the book down, setting his pipe on the open pages and Arthur is half surprised when Dutch does not seem to have a quote from Evelyn Miller ready on his tongue as a means to waylay what Arthur intends to discuss. “It _is_ a disappointing thing, son. I do not, and _am not_ taking the separation of my family lightly. It is an affliction in my _heart,_ Arthur,” Dutch’s voice strains in his emotional emphasis, “to not have both my sons beside me.” And just then, Hosea walks into view, brushin’ trail dust off his coat before he enters Dutch’s tent. “Something I am sure, Hosea here surely shares in.”

“What is it we’re discussin’?” Hosea asks distractedly, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. He looks up at Arthur and Dutch. “Has something happened?”

Arthur steps forward, but Dutch’s words carry firstly ahead of him as he turns to look up at Hosea. “Arthur and I were just lamenting our John being gone.” Hosea’s face falls as he lights his cigarette, and he gazes down at the warped boards that make up the floor of Dutch’s lair while taking a long drag. Dutch turns back to Arthur, his arms sweep out to his sides. “Arthur. Do not lose faith.” With one hand, he gestures towards Arthur absently, then stands, wagging a finger at Arthur. “You like to discredit him at times, I know. However, John has proven himself in growing to be quite the resourceful young man and a _damn_ good shot. You, yourself agreed before he… left, that it’d do him some good, be a boon for him to get out more because of the promise he was showing. I have unwavering confidence that John will return to us unharmed, Arthur.”

Dutch walks on by Arthur, stands at the mouth of his tent, back to both he and Hosea. Briefly, Arthur is at a loss for words. The first that come to mind is to correct Dutch, to say that Arthur doesn't recall agreeing to anything of the sort about John. He looks to Hosea for some kind of intuitive guidance.

“Speak up, Arthur,” he only urges gently.

Arthur licks his lips, takes in a deep breath and goes to stand beside Dutch. “Well that’s just it, it’s been some time since anyone even went lookin’, and I was going to propose that maybe we start again.”

“It’s true we haven’t heard anything locally, Dutch.” Hosea adds in, and a small weight drifts off Arthur’s shoulders with the breeziness of Hosea’s voice. “And if he’s skipped through territories, we may likely not. Maybe it _is_ due time we skirt the bounds of where we’ve searched previously.”

Dutch takes all that in without looking at either one of them.

“Dutch, we don’t even know why John would _leave_ the gang for this long to begin with. Ain’t you curious? You don't find that a bit… odd, him outta everyone?” Arthur pleads in a hushed tone.

With a disbelieving chuckle, Dutch suggests, “Oh, I think each of us all has our own suspicions, Arthur.” Finally, after a stern silence passes between them he asks, “Today?”

Arthur sighs with barely contained relief. “Well, whenever you’d like, and when we got the men to spare, but I was thinkin’– _hopin’_ soon.”

Dutch goes quiet again, mouth set tight. He slowly smoothes down his moustache with his thumb and index finger. “All right, Arthur. Three days, that's all I can give right now. We can only spare the Callander brothers, I'm afraid.” That's not really who Arthur would've chosen, himself, but he knows as of now, beggars can't be choosers, though he still finds himself above beggin’ anyone for anything, honestly. “They take one direction, you'll take another– whatever your choosin’, Arthur. Faster that way in order to cover more ground, obviously. _You know,_ what am I saying…”

Arthur had no real desire for arguin’ that point in particular. No, the dumbfounded look he knows he has currently plastered on his face, is for a much different reason than Dutch seems to suspect. Prior to speaking with him and Hosea, Arthur had absolutely _zero_ intention on taking part in the search for John this time around, but he does not dare say as much, lest he sow seeds of doubt for his own damn plan.

Nodding his thanks and farewells to Dutch and Hosea, Arthur roughly re-situates his hat back on his head and heads off in the direction of his wagon with determined strides. Packs only necessities, leaves anything he won’t mind restocking out on the trail, checks his ammo supply for his revolvers and rifle. He takes a swig of whiskey from his hip flask, hoping it eases the ache in his head.

Walking his packs over to Boadicea, Arthur hears Davey Callander yell after him. “Where the hell you goin’ off to now?” Just the man he needed to see, but didn’t much want to.

“To find John,” Arthur says plainly while he turns to Davey, squinting against the sun. “An’ yer coming with me. We'll figure out where to split off once we get ridin’ out.” He resumes saddling up his horse, not wanting to give attention to any potential objections from the boy.

_“Split off?”_ Davey scoffs.

“Don't you worry, you'll have company,” Arthur reassures him. He tightens up Boadicea’s cinch at her flank, making sure her saddle’s secure and she’s comfortable. Arthur gives the rest of her rigging another once over. “So you best pack for a few days’ ride and round up that older brother of yours before you even _think_ about fallin’ into a bottle of whiskey just yet. Thinkin’ he has the better sense of direction outta the two a’ you, anyways.”

Arthur looks back over his shoulder at Davey, who’s just content with standin’ around looking addled, it seems. Well, Arthur ain’t got the time for that currently. He lets out a sound that’s half a sigh, half a low growl of impatience. “You gonna get movin’ or do I have to put in a special request with _Dutch_ for you to do so?”

After that, Davey wastes no time at all. With all the leftover patience he can muster, Arthur waits for the Callander brothers to saddle and pack up, themselves. Once they’re all riding out properly, Mac asks, “So where’s we s’posed to be looking, again?”

They pass by burnt orange buttes the colour of gritty rust, towering towards the sky with their strange shapes and stranger shadows, like the thrones of some giant gods who abandoned the land for somethin’ better. Arthur wouldn’t blame ‘em if it were a true thing. The three of them weave around brush and cacti until they find a well-worn trail. “I don't rightly care,” Arthur calls in the direction of Mac. “Jailhouses – under the guise of checkin’ bounties, don't be stupid about it, now – hell, look out for bounty posters, too. The hell knows what that kid got hisself into…”

Davey rides up alongside Arthur at a canter. “With all respect due and offences unintended, Arthur, but we been checking postings.”

Gritting his teeth, Arthur keeps his eyes on the pale dirt road ahead of Boadicea’s nose. “And we're going to _check again._ Only takes one day from the next for shit to go sideways for a feller. We all know.”

“Saloons?” Mac pipes up from behind.

Arthur nods, then says, loud enough for his voice to carry on to Mac’s thick skull, “If you can keep the peace, sure. Don't go tryna _beat_ information or anything else outta people, y’hear me?” 

Davey did what he was asked, no questions, usually. But without a gun in his hand, he could be meek as a kitten when it came to threatenin’ or interrogating folks that needed interrogating. Mac on the other hand, was an overly vicious sort that needed the occasional verbal leashin’ to keep his head on straight and his knuckles from getting bloodied when it weren’t needed. “We meet back at camp in three days time, understand?” Arthur informs them both. “Dutch's orders. I ain't comin’ for either of you if you get yourselves mixed up in somethin’.”

Mac lets out a particularly obnoxious guffaw at that. “What, no search parties for the two a’ us?” Davey laughs along with him as they ride in tandem. But Arthur ignores them pointedly and keeps on talking over their snickerin’.

“Saloons, hotels... might as well check brothels too, I don't care. But don't you _pester_ the workin’ girls. Don't care where you look, so long as you're thorough and keep your noses clean. We clear?”

In a reluctant sorta way, Mac and Davey both agree. Arthur doesn’t exactly dislike these fellers, but the amount of moonshine he slept on the night before and the journeying still ahead of them is greatly affecting any chance at current equanimity towards the two of ‘em. Neither brother has been overly fond of Arthur or John though, on account’a what some liked to chalk up to Dutch and Hosea’s paternal-like favouritsm. If Arthur had it his way in particular, he would do away with that kind of unfair advantage and mollycoddlin’.

He figures they’re about ready to be well shot of each other, so Arthur blandly decides where they’ll go their separate ways by the simplest of means. “We split off at the next fork.” Every road is predictable in that way.

“Where you goin’, anyway, Arthur?” Davey sips from a large hip flask which makes Arthur’s eyes roll. “Got any leads on ‘im?”

Arthur sighs. “Nope. Just up north a little ways.” He gestures in the general direction of north, towards the seam of the horizon dotted with the tall white-tufted shoots of bear grass. “'Cross the Dakota.”

_“The Dakota?”_ Mac brays. “You cross that river and you're in New Hanover! Jesus, Morgan, how far you plannin’ on _searchin’_ for this kid?”

A sudden wave of guilt-heavy longing strikes Arthur. It knocks him off-kilter, almost entirely. But with it, comes the renewed desire to be the one to find John, for John to fucking be found _at all._ Arthur has not let himself truly anticipate the worst outcome of this, and he realises he has not let himself miss John in his hostile misery.

He scratches at the thick stubble covering his cheek, trying not to dwell and instead pack those emotions back up. Arthur slows his horse until the other boys do as well. Arthur turns to look Mac and Davey both dead in the eyes while they trot along. “How far, how long would _you_ go lookin’ for your brother? Either a’ you?”

They both seem a little taken aback at that, practically sputtering for an answer. Just as Arthur figured. 

“Consider maybe Johnny don't wanna be found?” Mac asks when Arthur faces forward again. There isn’t any maliciousness in the question, it is a genuine wondering he has. But it’s one Arthur cannot think to answer, cannot see as an alternative.

So, Arthur doesn't answer him. Just sets his jaw and spurs Boadicea on down the road.

With the exception of some conversation Arthur doesn’t care to be a part of, Mac and Davey shut up mostly. Arthur reiterates for them their plan in meeting back at camp in three days time with or without signs of John, and the usual necessary warnings that if they run into trouble, to head back early, but to sure as shit not bring that trouble down on the camp in doing so.

After two days immersed in the green of the Heartlands of New Hanover, Arthur feels wrung out of hope like a dirty rag. He sits on a wobbly bar stool in a dark saloon of some little settlement he never bothered catchin’ the name of. 

Condensation collects a little on the beer bottle clutched loosely in his fingertips. He twirls the glass bottle around on the bar idly, feeling the vibration along the glass as its bottom drags wet circles atop the shabby dark wood. Arthur contemplates getting a cheap room at the nearby hotel, but decides he could use the open air under the stars to set his mind to rights before heading back southwest empty handed. As he gulps down the dregs of his steadily warming beer, Arthur wonders whether the Callander brothers had as unsuccessful an endeavour as Arthur. Wonders if they even looked hard or smart enough. Before his aggravations can rise like bile in his throat once more, he slams a half dollar onto the bartop to signal for another beer. The barkeep eyes Arthur warily, as a few drunken stragglers have been stumblin’ their way out around him as the evening hours passed on, though Arthur himself has only nursed a couple beers. But the aging, leather-wrinkled man stops his uninspired glass-cleaning to grab and pop open another beer for Arthur, sliding the coin from the bar without a word of thanks or acknowledgement as he sets the bottle down in front of Arthur’s clenched fists.

“I’ll be gettin’ outta your hair now, don’t you worry none, mister,” Arthur drawls and dispels the man’s unspoken fears towards a stranger such as ‘imself while grabbing up the slippery-wet bottle in one gloved hand. He walks out of the saloon, casually tipping his hat to two bleary-eyed men who make no efforts to hide the way they stare him down.

Outside, Arthur tilts his face up towards the deep cobalt sky to chug down his beer. The saloon’s cold closet must’ve run out of ice during the evening. He wrinkles his nose at the unexpected stale taste of warm beer. It’s likely the barkeep chose the warmest beer possible as Arthur’s parting gift. He tosses the mostly empty bottle back towards the saloon steps, hearing the disappointing sound of glass thudding and bouncing off the wood instead of the satisfying crack and tinkling shatter he was hopin’ for.

Arthur signals for Boadicea; one long, high whistle that changes tone right at the end. Sure enough, he hears his girl nickering in a low rumble as she rounds the side of the general store to his right. The deep bay of her coat looks nearly black in the night. She walks up to Arthur, noddin’ her head up and down; long, black forelock bouncing between her ears. Arthur smooths his hand down her velvety nose and pats her on the neck just before mounting up. 

“C’mon, girl. Ain’t no use sticking ‘round here... Don’t know where that son of a bitch got off to.”

Arthur rides Boadicea at an easy gallop until the strain of exhaustion finally wears on him. It is nearly three in the morning when he slows her up and checks his pocket watch. Arthur settles for the flat space of a large field, tucking his tent amongst some sparse trees. He hitches Boadicea to one, feeding her a couple stalks of wilting celery from his satchel before he gets a meagre amount of kindling gathered for a small campfire he’ll use come morning.

By the limited light of his lantern, and the sprawl of the constellated night sky, Arthur sits with his back rested against a smooth tree trunk, writes his day into his journal, his disappointments. He’s been consciously avoidin’ spelling out the four letters that make up John’s name since he, Davey, and Mac left camp. Referring only to John in the vaguest of terminologies, or _he_ and _him_ and _his._ But now... now that avoidance has come to a meaning. Arthur flips to the next page and lets his right hand create John’s profile in rough strokes of his pencil; scribbles and long hatch marks for his unkempt hair, shorter marks along his jaw for that sorry excuse of a beard he has sometimes grown out of laziness.

Arthur stares down at his lap, at the hurried lines making up John’s face. Feels his worry take him over. Feels his misplaced _missin’_ of John filling ‘im up with the now-familiar heat of anger and hurt.

Come morning, the sketch will probably not resemble his John much in the light of day, but for now, it stirs up an ache inside Arthur. He’s allowed himself to become infected by this unnatural infatuation for John, and it festers and spreads throughout his body like a poison meant to slow his heart to a stop. Soon, he feels there will be nothing left of him but a gaping wound, and his journal that keeps his secrets absorbed into its pages, his only bandage.

Below the drawing, Arthur writes, with a truly inaccurate and falsified hope, that he never sees John Marston again.

Shame hangs itself heavy inside Arthur’s tent when he beds down for the night, mind stuck on memories of John, some of which he certainly should not have ownership of. With his spit-wet hand shoved past the open buttons of his union suit, Arthur wonders if it is him and his own personal selfishness that drove John away.

Waking to the picturesque scenery around him, Arthur ends up sippin’ coffee and surveying his surroundings under the warm sun. He can hear the gobble of wild turkeys from somewhere nearby and makes a note of it. He has already spotted one red fox quickly stalking its way through the tall grasses, a narrow shoot of fire cutting across the lush field.

Arthur has especially taken note of his proximity to a rail and a small station. Once he packs up his camp, he heads over, deciding to try his luck at sending a letter to Blackwater out ahead of him. Let Dutch and Hosea know he’s good, but he’s running behind maybe a day or so, that, _“game was scarce, so I regretfully admit I will be returning empty handed.”_ He signs with their usual alias, and makes the letter out to _H. Matthews & Sons. _Arthur hopes someone in camp is of a mind to check in at Blackwater before he returns.

Upon seeing Arthur’s name as _Tacitus Kilgore,_ the station clerk gives him a snicker Arthur is all too used to hearin’. He rolls his eyes and is prepared to walk away when the clerk stops him.

Still havin’ some amusement in his voice, the man begins to tell Arthur, “It’s just that, well, Mister Kilgore, it’s not a name yer used to seein’.”

“Sure.” Arthur nods in agreeement. Again, something he’s used to.

“It does ring a bell for me, though. It’s unique enough...”

“Well I, on occasion, pass through, so you may have–” Arthur tries to explain on the fly, but the clerk continues on.

“I’m almost certain we received a letter for that name somewhat recently. Never forget a name like that, you see.” The clerk turns his back to Arthur and wanders a few feet away from the window, further into his booth, searchin’ around. Arthur cannot go back on the lie he started, correct the man that he has in fact, never received mail from this station, that it is his first time here. “Let me see… let me see…” As the man searches in between short stacks of mail, sifting through off-white squares of sealed letters, Arthur feels his pulse in his ears, his eyes. His hands and feet begin to tingle as if they’d fallen asleep.

“Oh, shoot! Looks like perhaps it may have been taken out with the outgoin’ mail by mistake. I am terribly sorry, Mister… _Kilgore.”_ The clerk shakes his head, slow and apologetic.

Arthur tries to find his breath and get his tongue working again. “Wh-what, uhm– Do you remember who the sender was? Their name?”

“Oh, no, sir. I’m afraid I don’t. Was a… _much plainer_ name than yours, if you don’t mind my sayin’.”

“No, no, I understand. ...How recent?” Arthur feels a tight sort of hopeful panic seizin’ his heart.

“Hm? Well, let’s see…” The clerk taps his fingers repeatedly on the wood of his desk and Arthur itches all over as though he might jump straight outta his skin with the sound of it. “I’d venture to say a few days ago, maybe?”

Arthur clenches his fists out of view of the clerk until he feels the leather of his riding gloves creak against his palms. “Maybe you can uh, tell me then what the person looked like, if you recall? Sir, was they a young man? Dark, longer hair–”

The clerk just waves him off, sucks his teeth with that annoying disappointment furrowing his brow again. And Arthur is feelin’ very much like knockin’ the man’s nose into his throat at the moment, because there is no one more disappointed than _him_ right now. “Wasn’t me who received the letter. No, wasn’t my shift it came in on, y’see. Are you perchance stayin’ around these parts, mister? Valentine, maybe? You could check back with the night shift and ask– that’s when old Paulson works, on account’a him not bein’ able to stand the heat of the sun for too long ‘cause of his frail–”

Arthur turns on his heel, quickly unhitching Boadicea. He slides into his saddle with a burning rage and the station clerk hollerin’ a _“Real sorry, mister!”_ at his back.

Racin’ across the Dakota River, Arthur lands himself in the area around Strawberry after a time. He and Boadicea crisscross through dense forest at a slower pace, Arthur periodically checking to make sure he didn’t run his horse into too bad a lather. All the while, Arthur is keepin’ his eyes open for any sign of a camp, checking towards the skies for smoke. Years ago, Arthur had always told John to keep any settlements in the area he might find himself camping in, no more than a mile out if he could help it– unless he was runnin’ from the law, of course. Told ‘im to keep near water if he couldn’t do that.

Arthur doesn’t know what pushed him back westward instead of east. Doesn’t know why he is letting himself hang his hopes on such a thin _possibility,_ on a goddamn chance because some rambling station clerk said his alias sounded familiar. No letter is no proof that it was ever _John_ that was there in the first damn place. But Arthur has to _try,_ has to fight against those doubts settlin’ in comfortable within the hollow of his chest.

And he does try. Tries until his provisions are down to near scraps, until he’s shot three O’Driscoll Boys in the face and picked their pockets clean, searchin’ them and their wagon in a delirious haze, for anything belonging to John. Arthur searches until he feels like he might go mad with it, even calls for John along wooded trails and river banks until he can hear his own strained shouts echoing off stony ridges back to him.

Five days and Arthur finally drags himself back into the stifling, dry heat of camp just after sunset. He unsaddles Boadicea before he even looks anyone in the eye, then he finds Dutch. Finds Dutch and interrupts his exasperated line of questioning as to where Arthur’s been since they received his letter. In private, the weight of Arthur’s physical and mental exhaustion tear him down in front of Dutch. Arthur tells him about his search, already knows in his gut Mac and Davey didn’t find hide nor hair of John either, so he don’t ask. Dutch listens with rapt attention as Arthur goes on about the mystery letter at the station, finds out unnecessarily from an offhand comment Dutch makes that he musta been at Flatneck. Arthur shrugs and in dull words, explains away the blood-soiled neckerchief tied ‘round his thigh from a bullet graze when Dutch says he looks like shit. And Dutch’s mouth curls in a proud smirk when Arthur tiredly recalls his run-in with them few O’Driscolls.

He is vaguely aware of Dutch leaving the tent, tellin’ Arthur to hold on a minute.

Finally, Arthur breaks down as Hosea enters the tent with Dutch right behind. He does not remember if he had asked for his favourite father, but he’s here, and oddly, it is Dutch who hugs Arthur, quieting his shame at feelin’ like a pathetic child. But it’s Hosea’s calm voice Arthur hears beside him after Dutch summarises Arthur’s tale. Arthur gathers himself together, apologisin’ for his sorry state, even as they both brush it off.

“Unfortunately, we’ve not received any strange letters out of Blackwater or Strawberry,” Dutch explains. “However, I reckon we’ll be sending some of us out either way soon enough.”

Hosea adds in, trying his best to comfort Arthur, “And we’ll have folks keep an eye out for anything on the road, too. We all will.”

At that, Arthur lifts his heavy head in mild confusion. “On the road? For scoutin’ during supply runs, you mean?”

But Dutch just sighs with his fisted hands at his hips. “Arthur, we _have_ to move sooner rather than later, for the good of the camp. We’ll be more west for a little while, testing out the area, just until we regain our footing someplace a little more _stable_ and not so close to so much goddamn civilisation and law! After all, you mentioned your very recent run-in with Colm’s boys, and–”

“But that was up towards–”

_“Arthur,”_ Dutch insists again, places a hand firmly on Arthur’s shoulder. “Do you trust me to bring John back into the fold? To find him, and have him safely return to our family?”

Arthur sniffles quietly, rubs his palm against his overgrown beard. _“‘Course I do,_ Dutch.” He nods. “You know I do.”

Those words signal the first time Arthur must lie outright – and willingly – to Dutch van der Linde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Writing Dutch van der Linde is a _fucking task._
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading, commenting, subscribing, and kudosing thus far! It means a hell of a lot, you've no idea!


	3. In Bocca al Lupo (1895-96)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is titled after the Italian saying, "Into the mouth of the wolf," which is an idiom (we do love our idioms!) for telling someone, "Good luck." It is also the title of one of my favourite Murder by Death albums, and as I said previously, their music really influenced the writing of this story. I used to listen to them a shitton in my late teens and halfway through my twenties (still listened to my favourite songs occasionally after that), but RDR2 really reinvigorated my love for them. And music has always been a massive inspiration on my writing, besides.

_By the light of the moon_  
_I'm comin' home_  
_Howling all the way_  
_I'm comin' home_  
_On my hands and knees_  
_I'm comin' home_  
_I know when I've been beat_  
_I'm comin' home_  
  
_By the skin of my teeth_  
_I'm comin' home..._

_I got that taste in my mouth,_  
_I got a hunger in my gut_  
_My skin has turned to leather_  
_My hair is banded rope_  
_My knees have buckled beneath the weight of doubt_  
_But now I miss the things I have done without_

\- Murder by Death, "Comin' Home"

* * *

Today, John is twenty-three. Arthur cannot stand the solemn, stagnant air around camp due to everyone else noticing more today, the gap John leaves. So, Arthur goes too.

It’s a temporary departure, one he makes on the whim of his gloom, but he cannot stay and watch the sad looks the gang give one another a minute longer, nor see the place beside Dutch’s shelter, where John’s tent should be, but is absent. Arthur has kept John’s camp supplies stuffed in his wagon and lost amongst his own things since they travelled out to Tall Trees, and that has been its own sort of torture. 

Today, John is gone for six months’ time.

Arthur contemplates bringing Copper along for the added company, but Boadicea gets a little flighty with the way he likes to trail so damn close to her much too often. And Arthur doesn't much want that dumb, overly-brave mutt gettin’ kicked or becoming food for cougars while they was out.

Arthur feeds ol’ Copper a couple extra pieces of chicken from his stew before he heads out.

He packs enough for a day or two and leaves without a word to anyone, because he’s sure folks will understand. And if they don’t, well…

Picking nowhere in particular, Arthur simply sets off further into the rising forests, headed mostly in the direction of the river not terribly far off. He decides to dismount Bo’ and lead her along, picking their way across snow-caked detritus the further along they go. The mild end of August gave way to a September that seemed to embrace the chill of mountain air that swept down on autumnal winds throughout the Sierra Nevada. Arthur never was much for the cold, but he hated the dry heat of the desert all the more. John seemed to thrive in temperate weather, though; a quiet, but brooding child sat out on some rock like a lizard, practicin’ his letters to impress Dutch and Hosea with the scrawl of a pencil nub. Always burnin’ his nose from forgetting his hat or some damn nonsense as a teenager (Arthur remembers vividly, how he'd tease John about the dark freckles he'd earned across his nose for an entire summer). Lovin’ the open plains where you could see the world stretch out before you. _A land that don’t have anything to hide, unlike some things,_ he’d said to Arthur once.

Arthur supposed, though he preferred the greenery himself, that deep forest and thickets had their secrets to hide, aplenty. He holds an approaching mule deer in his sights, listening for any unseen predator that might be thinkin’ the same of it or _him,_ and takes his shot as the deer walks further out into the open from behind a wide-bellied sequoia.

By the time he has finished butchering and skinning the doe, carrying all of what he can back to his small camp, Arthur feels the mental weight of the day seep back into his bones like the creeping cold. Kneelin’ beside his campfire, Arthur cooks up the rest of the venison supply after he has had his own fill. He cleans his hands best he can in the snow and strips off his bloodied clothes down to his union suit, throwin’ on a spare pair of wool trousers and his fur-lined shotgun coat for warmth. 

Arthur sprawls out in his tent, wrapped tight in his bed roll. He dims his lantern, and props his journal up on his stomach, idly flipping to his next clean page. His time away from camp has done him mostly good he thinks– the distraction of his wanderings leechin’ out the anger that continues to flow through him anymore. 

These pages collected and bound by leather and the muscle of his heart speak it the loudest. If they were set to words, given a voice, Arthur thinks, they'd be screamed from mountaintops from a bloodied throat with all that his soul has endured.

But his particular ire towards John has subsided into a quiet pain he carries with other, older wounds. The occasional mention of John’s name no longer makes ‘im flinch, and most of the camp treats him with the odd decency usually extended towards a widower. It only makes him feel worse off. Abigail forms her hurt with curses made ‘specially for John and all that he ain’t been, all he might not ever be.

Abigail and Jack, they don’t deserve this any. Abigail just made the mistake of fallin’ for the wrong man, fooled herself into thinkin’ he was the right one. In a fit of spite and sympathy Arthur thought he could be that man for her, maybe. Consolations unacted on. Her and Jack don't need kindness moulded outta guilt, though. But Arthur? This is exactly what he deserves as a beating from Fate for his many, many sins no amount of scrubbing or confession could clean him of.

In his journal, beneath the date, Arthur writes with chilled fingers only this: _Happy Birthday, you goddamn bastard._

In his sleep, Arthur dreams. Dreams about pushing open doors that lead him into a loud and disreputable saloon he’s never seen before in all his years travelling with the gang. Not that any small-town watering hole is much different from the next, but this one don't boast an ounce of familiarity for Arthur. Stepping in, he immediately lays eyes on John, like a target through a scope. Sees him sittin’ at the bar alone, older maybe, Arthur can’t quite put his finger on it. But he is somehow changed and _different._ He is turned slightly to the door, faces Arthur’s direction, one arm on the bartop next to a short tumbler filled with something so red and deep, Arthur’s mind nearly falls into it, even from this distance. John remains seated, unmoving– but his gaze not leaving Arthur as he saunters in towards him. The patrons move around them, laugh and carry on as if Arthur and John ain't even there. Like they're ghosts takin’ up space, but not filling it. A fight breaks out, but time begins to drip like molasses around them. John pays no mind to it, begins to smile, still only having eyes for Arthur. Making his way to him, Arthur walks past men throwin’ fists and gigglin’ whores, right up to John. The untuned piano still peals on in regular timing, but everyone else goes hushed. Without thinking, Arthur cups John's jaw, bends and kisses him, square on the mouth. Arthur opens his eyes and… they’re the only ones in the saloon anymore. The building is quiet and empty. Unsettling.

The glass tumbler breaks. Blood flecks across the side of John’s face. Arthur wakes.

John has been gone for six months, and it is nearly another six before the gang hears from him. Arthur soon learns that Hell can change for a man, day to day, night after night, in ways one couldn’t even try to imagine.

* * *

**_1896_ **

A letter. 

A letter pulled folded and crinkled from Hosea’s vest. The man barely lets his horse come to a halt before he is leapin’ out of his saddle and callin’ out to everyone, _It’s John! It’s John!_ Callin’ out for Dutch, for Arthur. Everyone huddled ‘round the campfires shuts up, steam from their mouths the only things filling the void of silence around Hosea’s hurried shouting.

A letter is shoved into Dutch’s hands. Before he is even done reading, Hosea is sayin’ it’s gotta be him, pointing at the single page. Gotta be because _look at what he says, look at what it’s signed._

Arthur is stuck in the quicksand of his disbelief, rooted to the spot. Ain’t even sure how he gives thought to breathing. The letter is passed onto him, Dutch usherin’ him towards the light of the fire. 

_I might have made a mistake I guess. A grave one. One I am willing to be judged against and make up for so long as you’re willing to give me that chance. I know I don't deserve it. I’ll be staying around the area of a lake folks at a town called Strawberry say is Owanjila. Man at the general store wrote it down for me. So I hope the spelling’s right. I’ll be around till the end of the week if I can. Afraid my supplies ain’t much at the moment. Never was no real hunter. I know exactly who could vouch for that fact too._

_I’m sorry, I am. To everyone, but especially a certain few. My head wasn’t right. Hell, still might not be. Can’t say much more in letters. Just gotta trust me, but I would rightly understand if you didn’t bother with me. I know the rules._

_– Morgan Jackson_

That clever piece of shit. Arthur is of a mind to drop the paper right into the fire. Thinks he can… what, reel them all in with morose words to feel _sorry_ for him ‘cause now John's seen the error of his ways? See his side and goddamn rescue 'im because...? And the fuckin’ _name_ he used… 

Arthur scrubs a hand across his face, temporarily bringing back feeling to the cold of his nose and chin. It dawns on him then that he is holding _John’s words_ in his hand. Proof of him living. He doesn’t give a look to any of the expectant eyes he knows damn well are on ‘im right now. Instead, he looks over to Dutch and Hosea, gestures towards Dutch’s tent and they lead the way.

A hushed clamour follows them. It does not go unnoticed by Arthur that Abigail's voice is absent. He glances over his shoulder, sees her jaw set in clear resentment as she stays beside the fire, Jack cradled in her lap. He doesn’t know if it is John or Arthur she resents in this moment, or who is more deservin’ of it.

In Dutch’s tent, Arthur asks, with the surest voice he can manage, “When are _yous_ goin’ out to get ‘im?”

By the look that passes between ‘em, Arthur thinks Dutch and Hosea understand what he means to _not do_ just fine.

* * *

“For someone that was so worried about him, you sure have a funny way a’ showin’ you’re glad this kid’s okay.”

Javier had only known John – only been ushered into the Van der Linde flock – a few months maybe, before John'd taken off. So Arthur weren't too sure why Javier had been the first to volunteer as part of the search party, besides maybe the need to be Dutch's new shadow as a sort of repayment for taking him in. Dutch was always good at that: making people feel like they owed him the very life he saved. At least Javier seemed the competent sort so far. Arthur takes a long drag of his cigarette and looks up at Javier from where he’s mounted up on his horse. “Oh, I’ll be part of the welcomin’ party here at camp when y’all return, make no mistake,” Arthur says with a grim smile. “That’s if that idiot ain’t _starved to death_ yet by the time you all go wanderin’ around creation lookin’ for him. Maybe he went off and joined another gang, Hosea think a’ that? Could be a trap.”

 _“You_ tell Hosea, or Dutch that?”

“It don’t matter…”

Javier laughs, shaking his head. “You are a cynical bastard. We’ll bring your brother back, Arthur. Hosea and Dutch are sure of it. We'll ride hard, search harder. And if it is a trap, well… I’ve got my knives and a quick hand.” He pats one of his belts where a handful of throwin’ knives rests like silvered fangs against his hip. No doubt poisoned, too.

“They for John or the fellers who’re usin’ him as bait, in this hypothetical scenario?”

Grinning ear to ear, Javier shrugs. “Guess we will see, won’t we?”

“Yeah, if I’m a cynical bastard, you’re a sick one, Escuella.”

At night, without the sounds of his fathers’ impassioned stories or book readings, Arthur must instead listen to the tall tales Uncle slurs through, makin’ the girls wrinkle their noses, throwin’ jeers his way. The boys o’course, revel in it. And when Bill and the Callander brothers join in with their own piles of bawdy lies, cacklin’ and carryin’ on, Arthur listens to about all he can stand with the help of whiskey before he finds his cot and settles in for restless sleep, with Copper sprawled heavy across his legs.

One late evening, his pathetic ruminations find him again. Arthur thinks about John at seventeen, when Arthur saw him as nothin’ more than his annoyin’ shadow most days. As a young man, Arthur had a notion of hero worship about the way he saw Dutch and Hosea, probably still does somewhere hidden not as deep as he’d like. He had a hard time believing anyone was right in the head to think that way about him.

Arthur thinks about John at twenty, truthfully and with a raw honesty that feels like a fresh burn. Remembers the glances he stole, and the ones he weren’t sure John was actually bein’ a thief for too until he _was._ Arthur was mostly successful in ignoring it all until one _goddamn_ night he was weak. And then John found that weak spot and tore into him like lightning shreds the sky. Lit him up from the inside and pulled all those secret truths Arthur kept hidden in the darkest parts of him, out from the shadows.

* * *

It takes three days.

Dutch, Hosea, and Javier ride into camp, with Dutch leadin’ the three in, Bill moseying alongside them on foot, rifle still in his hands from his abandoned guard duty.

A shivering John Marston sits hunched behind Dutch, wearing a ratty coat that probably belonged to some poor asshole he put a bullet in, judging by the way it engulfs him, at least two sizes too big.

The camp gathers around them, and before John even sets one boot on the ground, Abigail and Miss Grimshaw have harsh words for 'im. The men slap him on the back. Mac nearly knockin’ John over with the force of his put-upon gladness over the return of the gang's wayward sheep. Pearson tells John he's got just the thing to put some meat back on his now even thinner frame. Dutch beams. Hosea has never looked more relieved.

Wild-eyed, Arthur stands amongst it all like a boat lost at sea.

The crowd parts, and John walks towards Arthur. His hair is shorter, Arthur realises; a thick, stringy lock of hair flops over John's brow below his hat. His starved gauntness is partially hidden by a spotty, unkempt beard. A deep tiredness stains the thin skin below his eyes, colouring the small wrinkles there in an unhealthy grey.

And Arthur…

“Hey, Blondie.” John tips his hat, starts to smile.

“Where's yer horse?”

The smile dies. “Sold him little over a month ago, maybe. I needed to eat.”

“You’re one _lucky_ son of bitch, Marston. Know that?”

Fury and hurt and longing melt and solidify together like candle wax dripped on the seal of a letter kept close to the heart. Never to be opened.

John nods curtly, pulls that stolen coat a little tighter across his chest. “...Yeah. Good to see you too, I guess.”

“Just… get the hell outta my sight...”

And Arthur knows, with a vicious, shock-inducing certainty, that he is damnably in love with John.

He keeps his distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... I just want these bastards to kiss and make up, too lol  
> I didn't realise, until I looked at the date of my last posting, that I was getting this chapter out so soon! The next one may take a bit longer, as I've hit some snags/hiccups (like figuring out when the shit everyone joined the gang and where the hell they all moved around to & _when_?! Only "canon-divergence" can save me now lmao) and I want everything to be smoothed out and as damn near perfect as I can manage before sending it your way. So just bear with me, guys!♥


	4. I Am All Pine and He Is Apple Orchard (1896-97)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur attempts to find a modicum of peace for himself somewhere in the painful distance he creates between he and John, but Fate and John's brash impulsivity have other plans.

_Pain or travel, to run or ride,_

_I undertake it pleasantly;_

_Bid ye me go, and straight I glide_

_At your commandement humbly.  
_ _  
Pain or pleasure, now may you plant_ _  
_

_Even which it please you steadfastly;_

_Do which you list, I shall not want_

_To be your servant secretly.  
_ _  
And since so much I do desire_ _  
_

_To be your own assuredly,_

_For all my service and my hire_

_Reward your servant liberally.  
_  
\- Sir Thomas Wyatt, "The Heart and Service" _  
_

* * *

The close-quarters estrangement is like a valley for everyone else to look down into. Arthur holds onto his resentments with John like his life may very well depend on it. It’s simple for those with an outside view, to connect the dots without knowing the whole truth. No one needs to look into the river that cuts through their divide to see just how it flows.

Arthur’s feelings of betrayal make him abrasive and fray his nerves. He becomes distant and more reserved than usual.

The gang, much to Arthur’s thankfulness, does not antagonise the flared tempers that are a direct result of Arthur and John’s quiet ruin. Sure, they give queer looks when the old warmth of Arthur’s relationship with John is replaced by an overwhelming, brutal coldness that leaves the two’a them in a stifling melancholy most days. And more often than not, that bleakness spills out in biting words that come real close to turnin’ to blows. Arthur don’t even try to hide that there’s something _wrong._

But he can’t give answers when asked, not all of ‘em. Doesn’t really care where John lays blame if someone were to prod him too, ‘cause Arthur knows better than to think John might just point the finger at ‘is own chest.

Dutch stops sending them out on jobs together unless he or Hosea are present – ever the mediators – and Miss Grimshaw looks like she about wants to throttle the both of ‘em. Sayin’s the camp only got time to raise _one_ child now.

It all somehow don’t hurt Arthur’s pride enough to make ‘im let up. If anything, it causes him to act more stubborn yet. 

At camp, around the fire, John does in fact try to make friendly talk with Arthur ever so often, seemingly growin’ brave in the company of group conversation and drinkin’. But Arthur cannot bear it, doesn’t want the idiot to think he’s back in his favour just because Arthur mighta laughed a bit at somethin’ dumb he said or breathed in his general direction. Arthur shoots ‘im down until he full-on avoids bein’ social where John is involved.

The slate never was cleaned for them.

They’re back to this, he supposes. That distance that is full with the magnitude of everything left unsaid. Things that can and cannot be fixed with words, for different reasons and much the same as before. Comin’ back was John's second chance – aside from the one Dutch had gave 'im at this cruel life. It was also one Arthur has to take, to learn to keep the range of his feelings for John at bay. The best way to shut one’s eyes and mouth to the fruit of temptation is to simply not sit beneath its branches.

* * *

_**1897** _

Arthur is beginning to lose count of how many goddamn times Dutch has decided to move them since their time in West Elizabeth already. He thought they could finally grow comfortable there, bein’s as it was out West, where Dutch had been aimin’ to steer them for some time, anyways. It seems he is always in search of the most untouched of lands, though. But what Dutch seems to not wanna admit to, is that they _need_ people, in a… _ungenerous_ sorta way or not. The further away they try to get from the civilisation they’ve been evading at every corner also means further scoutin’ for word of jobs they could run and longer rides out to rich fools’ homesteads, or small settlements with banks that keep guards with shit for brains, or not at all. Not to mention stagecoaches worth their effort and trouble were becomin’ like needles in a goddamn haystack.

So they move. They wander, with their wagon train looking much like the leftovers of a defeated fleet of ships crossing uncharted waters. A band of not-so-merry misfits set to sea.

The benefit of such open lands though, is that Arthur can get lost in them. Not truly lost of course, but when he finds himself deep in dangerous thoughts, he can escape from the difficulty of that type a’ lingerin’. Escape from the sad grey of John’s eyes at his back, and the questions they hold.

It becomes a normal thing– for Arthur to go on his day-rides out to nowhere after he spreads his help throughout the camp where it’s needed, returning with game he happened to hunt out in the prairies; skinned hides to sell maybe; and sometimes a sad drunkenness he’s shit at hidin’. But Arthur almost always returns at night to fall into his own cot, even if it is closer to dawn than dusk when he sometimes does. It is a routine, a monotony that he thinks maybe he could find peace in, if nothing else.

Such ease never lasts as long as Arthur’d like, though. He ain't ever had that kinda luck cling to his side.

* * *

  
  


“I got these assholes, you take out the ones further down, behind the crates! Then get down to the second flatcar and call for the horses!” John yells over the crack of gunfire and the loud rhythm of the train riding the rails.

The train job was supposed to be a quick and simple thing. But apparently, some other few thugs of their kind had heard the same tale through a different grape vine, of some mediocre-yet-well-to-do stage players who was temporarily stranded in Lombard due to their kindly stagecoach driver getting his head kicked in during a bar fight. They was takin’ the train that passed through, and Bill thought he, Arthur, Javier, and John could head ‘em off before the next stop.

The four of them had taken out the half-wit other “gang” that wanted in on rich folks’ pockets, but _apparently,_ this here train was also carryin’ some armed muscle aplenty. Guess word had got to them ‘bout who they’d be havin’ as passengers– those with and without tickets. To Arthur, the situation had quickly become not worth the shit it was kickin’ up.

Didn’t help that their take isn’t gonna likely get them more than two-hundred dollars.

Well, maybe a bit more considering the fact that _little Johnny Marston_ here saw all the other wealthy men and women, sittin’ unsuspecting and pretty with their satiny ruffles and pressed three-piece suits along the rows of passenger cars, and done decided to hold hisself a nice little spontaneous stick-up without passin’ it by the other three of ‘em!

From where he stands in cover on one side of the train car doorway, Arthur narrows his eyes at John across from him. Arthur leans heavily against the wall, then peeks out in the darkness to try and get a look at the guards positions best he can without gettin’ shot. A bullet splinters the edge of the door frame as Arthur quickly ducks back. The guards are moving their way fast now. They ain’t got much time to argue, but– “You tryna play hero or somethin’ here, Marston?”

Bill and Javier had already made their escape from the baggage car after combing it clean of valuables, Arthur tellin’ ‘em to not hang around the train long in case shit got real hairy while he went and fetched John.

They’d got what they came for, and now John’s juvenile greed was fixing to get them both _killed._

“Just– _cover me_ and get to that second damn flatcar then whistle for Bo’ after you’ve cleared it of guards!” John demands, pulling his red bandana back over his nose and mouth.

Arthur don’t have seconds to spare to question him again, as John is jumping out the door of their car and into more chaos. Before Arthur rushes out, he sees John tackle the closest guard, throwin’ them both to the ground, then knocking ‘im hard across the face with the butt of his revolver. As Arthur runs past and heads down to the first flatcar, he hears two shots in quick succession behind him, and swallows down the doubtful kinda hopin’ he has that it was John’s guns what did the firing, not somebody else's.

One guard stands from the cover of a crate and just misses Arthur’s shoulder when the man spies Arthur drawing on him. The guard ducks back down behind cover too quick for Arthur to return fire, though. Going into a running crouch, Arthur slams his back against another stack of crates ahead of the guard, rough wood catchin’ at the material of his shotgun coat. He waits a breath and pops back up to fire a shot into the cheek of the guard at the same time he raises his head. A thread of blood arcs black in the night. Another guard rounds the crates Arthur is hidin’ behind right after, rifle immediately pointed down at him, but Arthur flings the man back with two shots to his chest. 

As Arthur gets up, he chances a look over his shoulder. With relief flooding his body, he sees John by the light of the moon, scrambling to his feet while snatching up some dropped loot, the sloppy moron. Two men are laid flat out around him. He stuffs what looks to be a small handful of women’s jewelry into his satchel, then heads for Arthur’s train car.

“Hurry the hell up, would ya!” Arthur calls back to him. The cold air whipping by makes his eyes water above his bandana. He’s almost to the next flatcar, when he hears a gun go off.

Arthur stops dead in his tracks. When he turns around, John is standing at the other end of the flatbed, arm extended and wisps of smoke from the barrel of his revolver quickly dissipating into the wind. A man lies sprawled on his back, gun in hand and middle of his forehead blown outward. Arthur looks back up at John.

“Son of a bitch came out from behind those barrels!” John shouts and casually points the hand still wrapped ‘round his gun towards a group of three wide barrels to Arthur’s right, where a man could easily remain unseen with the help of darkness. Feels like Arthur’s heart is tryin’ to drum its way up his damn throat.

But he presses on and hopes to Hell there ain’t no more train guards to get through before they can get themselves out of this damn mess– before Arthur can get _John_ outta this mess.

For a split second, Arthur entertains the idea of goin’ and climbing up ahead to the tender and engine to just make the conductor stop the train altogether – or stop it ‘imself – but Arthur knows that’ll only give the other guards still left an advantage. And they can’t afford anything of the sort right now.

Arthur signals for Boadicea with two long whistles as he hops over the train coupling, knowin’ she was always good at keeping pace with the trains they robbed on short jobs, but this one… this one’s gone on too long and he hopes she ain’t back too far. He hears John’s boots hit at a jog behind him, and seconds later, Boadicea’s hooves beat out of sync with the rest of the rhythms surrounding Arthur. John comes to a wobbly skid beside him; a trickle of blood seeps from a cut on his brow.

“Yer gonna have to jump on Bo’ after me since you can’t train horses for shit, apparently. Then we’ll backtrack and find _your_ horse.” Arthur side-eyes John, who only glowers back at him.

“What if…”

“What if _what,_ John? What the fuck– _important,_ theoretical _questions_ you got time to _ponder_ right now, huh?” Arthur feels about ready to just knock John off the goddamn train. He looks nervous and fidgety, glancing over the edge of the flatcar, then to Boadicea every couple’a seconds.

“...What if I miss or don’t land right and fall off?”

“What if you–” Arthur curses, grabs John by the coat and pulls him close, then leaps off the edge behind his horse before John’s got time to protest.

They roll apart, dust, gravel, and grass flyin’ up in their wake. When Arthur’s world stops spinning, he checks around for Boadicea, sees her turning around not far ahead, jerking her head back repeatedly with annoyed snorts as she prances over to him. _Yeah, I know girl… how you think I feel right now?_

John’s no more than a few feet away, on his hands and knees, head bowed towards the ground, mutterin’ something or another. Arthur checks his satchel, makin’ sure it's still tied shut and none of what he stole fell out in their tumble, then crawls his way over to John.

“Anythin’ broken?”

John lifts his head, eyes a bit bleary. “Don’t think so–”

Arthur shoves him in the shoulder – _hard –_ and John's face becomes an instant fury as he falls over.

“The fuck were you stallin’ for?” Arthur shoves John again when he rights himself. “Waitin’ to make sure the other guards knew exactly where we were headin’ off first?”

“I don’t know! Guess I was worried I’d get trampled or fall off and roll under the train or some shit. Jesus, just leave me be, all right?” John begins to dust himself off, hidin’ his clear embarrassment. Pivoting around to look for his hat, he gives his disheveled hair a quick, messy finger-combing as if his body can read the traitorous temptation in Arthur’s own hands.

 _“You are–_ I don’t even got words for it.” 

John was more likely to have gotten himself a bullet to the head with the shit he pulled tonight than end up under a train or Boadicea’s hooves.

“What a damn shame. I like to keep a count of all those insults you throw at me, y’know. S’let me help you, Arthur: moron, idiot, lazy, dumb kid, _stupid piece of shit…”_ John counts off on his fingers. They can’t be wastin’ no more time fuckin’ bickering over nonsense. “Any a’ those’ll do me fine, I’m sure. I ain’t picky.”

Arthur grabs John up until he’s standing with him. “Just _shut up._ C’mon. We need to get _gone_ like yesterday, John. Gotta find that mule of a horse you own then split up. I’ll find Bill and Javier if I can, but they already know what to do. ‘Magine that– _following shit according to plan.”_

They eventually find John’s horse, Lady, grazing calm as you please amongst a small cluster of stout trees, like it was just another fine day in a grassy pasture. 

“She just as oblivious as you, look at ‘er.” Arthur remarks with a chuckle as John’s hands finally leave his waist and hip. He slides awkwardly from Boadicea’s rump to walk over to Lady. “Quite a pair you make. Think you each got just enough brains to make a whole one together. Hell, fine filly like that might be the ticket to gettin’ Abigail jealous enough to take your sorry hide back.”

Watching John hoist himself up onto his horse, Arthur eases back in his own saddle, now that he's got the extra room again. It was a tight squeeze with some of Arthur’s camping gear rigged to the saddle, and he is glad to be free of John’s close presence. Away from his hands, held tight out of fear, his chest at Arthur’s back and intermittent warm breath against his neck– 

“I ain’t no horse-fucking hillbilly, but thanks. I’ll train ‘er proper… eventually. Just ain't got a knack for it like you and Hosea do. Man at the stables said she was well-behaved enough. Didn’t think I’d have any problems.”

“Yeah, well… y’get what you pay for, I guess.”

John is self-conscious in his gestures without his beat-up hat, left by the railway and accidentally trampled by Bo’. He keeps tuckin’ back the waves that curl wildly just over his ears. Even in the black of the shade cast over him by the trees he is under, Arthur thinks John looks his age then, fidgeting with the dirty bandana still tied 'round his neck, slim frame slouched forward.

“I know I fucked up pretty bad,” he finally croaks.

Arthur huffs. That weren't the half a’ Arthur's issues with John. “Might have to be a lil’ more specific.”

John chews the inside of his cheek and stares past Arthur’s right, through the break in the trees the moonlight cuts through. “Thought I could get us a better take than what Bill was figurin’ for. Prove I could do just fine on bigger jobs if Dutch and Hosea would just _let me.”_ He shakes his head solemnly and Arthur can just make out the way John grips and wrings the reins in his hands. “I know I'm better than what you all put me up for! Didn’t practise getting to be such a good shot just to stand around camp shootin’ bottles off barrels!” John looks straight at Arthur when he yells, “I ain't a kid no more and I'm 'bout fuckin’ sick of being treated like one!”

“Robbin’ and scarin’ little old ladies outta their coin purses make you feel like a _big man,_ hm? Alerting every damn guard on the train of us – when we was doin’ just fine before that – cause you had to go an' fire a shot through the carriage roof when one innocent man tried stepping in… all that did was prove you _ain't_ ready yet. Can't take you on some bank robbery on the off chance you get itchy trigger fingers, could we? We already got Davey and Mac to worry about when it comes to shit like that!”

John's horse begins to get antsy with all their hollering back and forth, trying to turn John around, this way and that. He jerks on her reins too hard and she rears back a little, but he holds firm in the saddle. It is an unfortunate thing, as Arthur feels like maybe a knock on his ass might do John some good right about now.

“They ain't got nothin’ to prove, though! None a' you do! And why's it that the Callander brothers get a pass for bein’ hot-headed fools, but not me, huh? Every time I mess up, even a little, to you it’s another mark to tally in the air for me.”

“Well, can’t rightly enjoy the wealth, _John,_ if you’re fuckin’ _dead!”_ Arthur snaps. “And stop trying to prove yourself as somethin’ and just _be_ somethin’. Look, I know you ain't stupid, I just say all that because you _piss me off_ all the damn time with the dumb shit you pull! Gettin’ shot ain't a badge of honour if it gets you killed, being strung up on the gallows 'cause you got caught by the law ain't proof of nothin’ aside from it having been a waste to save your scrawny neck when you was a kid.”

John turns his gaze away from Arthur. “Yeah, well… maybe I still wanna prove myself to _you.”_

That hits Arthur right in the chest. Is this John only feeling bad for what he’d done – not just on the train robbery, but his leaving – so he thinks now he’s gotta do all this brash grandstanding for Arthur’s benefit? Sounds more like a sure-fire way to get ‘imself killed, benefitting no one at all. Arthur thinks’a how to tell that to John without showin’ his own hand too much. “And I'd like it if you showed me you wanna live to see the other side of thirty. It ain't too great, I'll tell you that, but even still…”

With a sour expression on his face, like he’s got Arthur to blame for his problems, John only sits there on his horse, seemingly rid of replies finally. Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “We… we gotta move along now. If we’re lucky, we didn’t alert every possible lawman or bounty hunter in a half-mile radius.”

“Yeah… No, I got it,” John answers, curt.

They end up riding off in opposite directions, east and westward, as Arthur decides it is safer if he gives Bill and Javier the benefit of the doubt that they made out just fine. 

Arthur brings Boadicea to a canter once he is far enough from where he and John were last. The moon hangs high and bright like a silver dollar tossed in the air, the stars having snatched it up, decidin’ to keep an earthly treasure for themselves. The light of it carves slivered shadows over the shallow crests of rolling hills Arthur rides past, and jagged shapes into slopes of rock further out. He pulls Bo’ up a little 'til she slows to a stop so he can grab his journal from one of his saddlebags.

Arthur quickly covers the sprawl of two pages in thick sweeps of shiny graphite, enjoyin’ the soft sound the side of his pencil lead makes as he sculpts his own private spaces of light with the white of the paper. 

It is a clear and mostly quiet night– quite the change after the noise of gunfire and shoutin’ they’d all had to deal with just an hour prior.

Travelling across yellow and grey fields of sagebrush, Arthur keeps a lookout for a good spot to make camp. There ain’t much tree cover for what looks to be almost another mile, but Arthur isn’t trying to ride all that far out. He’s content with making a small campfire and laying out his bedroll beside it just for a few hours rest, honestly. Arthur is just hopin’ John fares well enough on his own overnight. Shouldn’t even be _worryin’_ after him. Arthur still has an ocean’s worth of hurt and aggravation to sort out due to John leaving. And John acting like he can just cover it up with niceties and stupid acts of courage to prove a point is just salt on Arthur’s wounds. They haven’t even been able to discuss civilly, that time he was gone. 

Despite still rightfully gripin’ at John near daily about being there for Jack at even a minimum, Abigail seems to have reached the end of her rope with John in other respects. John should be putting his energy into changing for those two, if anything. Arthur… he’ll find his own way to forgive John in time, but he don’t think he could ever forget what John’d done… or the possibilities of why.

Possibilities he certainly ain’t even gonna entertain.

Arthur clenches his teeth, just thinking about _not_ thinking about it. He tries to refocus on the blue-washed land stretching out around him, but– _“Goddamnit!”_ he curses to himself. Pulling slightly on the reins and squeezing a leg against Boadicea’s girth, he gets her to turn sharply, then spurs her into a gallop towards the general direction he originally came from. 

Arthur tells himself lies to justify his turning back. Lies such as him maybe not havin’ a right to John, but havin’ every right to know the answers John owes a high debt of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! So this was going to be a _massive_ update, but I decided to split the chapters up because... seriously, it would have been the longest chapter I've ever written (I think 10k was my previous record) and... content-wise, it's better for the story, I believe. But! That means I _should_ have the next chapter up much sooner than this one had taken to post!
> 
> Chapter title inspired by a line from one of my favourite poems of Robert Frost's, "Mending Wall."
> 
> As always, thank you guys for reading!<3


	5. Silent Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and John finally hash out their problems... and then some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verily, this is a loooong, long chapter >_< lmao  
> I warned you guys in the last update, though! Hopefully you enjoy a long read, aye?
> 
> Some things definitely worth mentioning first: I've added to/changed the tags slightly to reflect the direction the story is and will be heading in the future. I am always sure to update tags in my stories as needed, and I'll let you guys know when I do. While this story will become lighter as things progress, and absolutely have a happy ending, things are going to be rough at times. I don't subscribe to the fandom definition of "angst" (please take no offence to that, as I intend none!!), but this story will never include difficult situations for shock value. What I mean by that is, I want to move my readers, and this story definitely deals with realistic themes of internalised homophobia and toxic masculinity due to the time period. I want to be up front about that. That may be hard to read, but I do my best to treat these scenarios with delicate hands. Complicated and difficult conversations will happen, like in this next chapter here. And the more I write Arthur and John in this fic, I am realising "my version" of John displays some symptoms of depression. But I thought about it, and honestly, he shows quite a lot of tells for both depression and anxiety, canonically. I'm not going to get terribly dark with this or anything, so worry not! Just figured I'd mention it, in case anyone has any questions. And feel free to ask them!
> 
> We uh, _really_ earn that "E" rating here too, btw. haha

_Well, Want and Able were crossing the road_

_Want had a feeling there was something he was owed_  
_But Able broke it to him that there's a social code_  
_So walk straight down the middle now, and do what we're told_

_Who is the who, telling who what to do?_  
_Tell me who, tell me who, tell me who?_

_Want said that didn't feel so good-_  
_To never be fulfilled, forever stressed out and impatient_  
_Always saying, "Just over the next hill."_

-Jack White, "Want and Able"

* * *

Luckily, Arthur had kept a mostly straight path, but he can’t be so certain about where John mighta rode off to. With eyes that constantly dart upwards as he rides on, Arthur combs the area until he sees a faint column of black smoke ascending towards the sky. He decides to take his chances and maybe push his luck a little, too.

Right hand on his revolver, Arthur slowly rides up to the reddish glow of firelight tucked within a dense line of pine trees. The fire doesn’t seem big enough for a group, so the thought that he could be stumbling into a temporary gang hideout quickly leaves Arthur’s mind. Even so, strangers don’t take kindly to other strangers catchin’ them unawares out in the wilderness.

A cushion of fallen pine needles softens the sound of Boadicea’s hooves against the ground, but only just. Her dark bay coat can’t keep her camouflaged for too long before the light of the fire illuminates them. 

“Listen friend! I ain’t in no kinda mood– _Arthur?”_ John calls out and stands abruptly, with eyes wild and a Cattleman pointed up at Arthur’s face. There ain't a tremor noticeable in his arm or hand. “The fuck are you doing here?” John doesn’t lower and holster his weapon until Arthur dismounts. He sits himself back down on an old, nearly hollow log that it seems he set his camp up around. 

Arthur tells Bo’ to hold, not too worried about having to hitch ‘er up, then walks into the flicker of the campfire. He stands with his hands on his hips beside John, looking down at him beneath the brim of his hat.

 _“What?”_ John’s brows are pulled down in blatant annoyance.

“It's _my turn_ to ask some questions.”

John doesn’t much react to that, but pivots to rummage in the pack at his feet, pulling out a rag and his flask. Arthur watches him pour a little alcohol onto the cloth, then John brings it to the cut on his left eyebrow. He winces and Arthur nearly smiles in satisfaction.

“So what I wanna know,” Arthur starts slowly and calm-like, “is why the hell you took off on us like you did. The _real_ reason. Not some story you come up with for anybody else.” Once, and what feels like too long ago now, John and Arthur could confide in each other damn near everything. Arthur isn’t sure when that stopped bein’ true for ‘em. All he knows, is it was before they’d ever first kissed, and what had been quietly brewing between them all this time since, had certainly put even more of a strain on their already weakening bond. It makes his insides twist with something more than regret.

He doesn’t know when John started deemin’ it necessary to hide shit from him so often. _Important shit._

“Really?!” John’s hand falls away from his face and into his lap. “You wanna ask me that _now?_ I know you’re pissed at me tonight because of the train job and all, but–”

“But nothin’.” Frankly, this had nothin’ to do with the train job. Fortunately, John hadn’t made a total mess a’ things and they hadn’t lost any of the money or loot they’d came for. This, this right here had been growing inside Arthur like a sickness ever since John had returned to them. “I want _you_ to tell it to me straight. If you can goddamn manage a feat like that.”

John stands immediately, rag and still-open flask dropping to the ground from his lap. The smell of strong hooch permeates the air. “You wanna know why? I needed time to think, that's all! _Goddamnit._ Time to breathe, it's that simple!”

“No, no it _ain't._ Leavin’ without a word ain't ‘ _simple,’_ John,” Arthur mocks as he steps into John's space. “Not hearing from you for almost a year, ain't simple. Thinkin’ you was probably _dead_ ain't fuckin’ simple!”

“I sent other letters before that last one, hopin’ maybe one’a you would read it at a station if you happened by a town I was near.” He cocks his head to the side. Narrowing his eyes, John begins to ask, “You really think I was dead, or somebody else put that thought in your–”

“You're real fuckin’ stupid, you know that?”

John goes quiet and tight-lipped. Looks ready to knock Arthur in the jaw. And right now, Arthur almost wants to egg him on. Wants that rush of violence instead of the pressure of so much bullshit he's been bottlin’ up. He is much better dealing with that sort of trouble. Violence, he can handle. A silent feud with the man he’d long considered his best friend? Nah, Arthur don’t know how to put his hands on that and put it to rights without the possibility of ruining it further.

“See?” John turns his head, lets out a calming breath before he looks back to Arthur. “There you go again. Telling me I always need to be usin’ my head more, and then when I really fucking _need_ to– when I need to _clear_ my head to get it sorted, it ain't good for no one! Least of all you, apparently.”

Arthur cannot believe John is seriously thinking that what he did was beneficial in some way. That he don’t realise how self-centred he sounds. What dream world is this boy livin’ in? “Yeah, you sure fuckin’ cleared it, all right. 'Cause no amount a’ _sense_ would make you pull something so _selfish.”_

John takes a step back, like Arthur slapped ‘im across the face with the accusation– the truth.

“What, Abigail talk yer ear off complainin’ about how awful a man I am for all them months? Y’get sick of it? I already know I'm not cut out to be any kinda father to Jack, even if he were mine.” John side steps Arthur, pats at his sides until he digs into a pocket to pull out his shiny cigarette tin. Huh, didn’t feel compelled to sell _that,_ it seems. 

“Don't know why folks like actin’ as if I _am_ fit to be raisin’ him,” John complains around the cigarette stuck between his lips. He lights it and takes a long puff, cherry glowing like a warning signal for John's next angry barrage of excuses. “When their words and actions clearly show they really think otherwise. Figured he didn't need no role model like me, _cause I ain't one._ And without me around, I’m bettin’ you got to be Dutch’s golden gun again! Ain't got no more competition, Arthur. Not even now, with me back.”

“If you really felt that way, if everything was so _bad_ and you thought we was better off without you, why come back at all? ‘Cause you was starving out there?” Arthur don’t really mean the things he says. But, he has also learned from his fathers, that with a good enough bait, you got a higher chance of catchin’ out the truth from somebody withholdin’ it.

Arthur isn’t much prepared for the answer John gives.

“I came back for the same reasons you stayed, Arthur. The hell you actin’ like you care so much, anyway?”

“Wh– 'Course I care! Shit.” Caring is exactly what got them both into this… _predicament_ they was in. But this isn’t about caring or jealousy… Hell, Arthur doesn’t really know why the fuck they’re even arguin’ still. “And what’re you talking about? Dutch welcomed you back with open arms like the lost family _dog_ come back home. Wouldn't have done so for not a one of us, not even _me._ You best appreciate that, too. M’sure you remember how Dutch was when–” Arthur chokes on the words and the memories, precious and painful, that wrap around them, keeping them tied to his tongue. 

It takes Arthur a moment to continue. By the sympathy in John’s frown, he gets what Arthur is goin’ back to in his private thoughts, doesn’t push Arthur to speak until he’s ready. 

“Well, I'd say Dutch was near _relieved_ I lost somethin’ to go back to that wasn't _this_ family he built. I stayed because I couldn’t do no better, that was obvious. And for reasons of my own that you better not ever try to compare your excuses against again,” Arthur manages to finish. “So don't you dare try spinnin’ some bullshit 'bout how you need a goddamn pity party for what _you_ chose... that you gotta get back in Dutch and Hosea’s good graces now, or how I didn't care. Hell, I probably gave a shit a little too much.”

“Probably,” John agrees, voice sour. Smoke slowly floats from his mouth like fog. He takes another long drag from his cigarette then tosses it right past Arthur into the fire.

“Yeah, sure seems to be a serious problem I got with you,” Arthur mumbles as his anger and frustration begin to wane a little.

John just _has_ to add kindling to the simmering flame, though, by way of a condescending tone that makes Arthur bristle, “Why, 'cause I'm your 'brother?’”

But Arthur manages to douse his next flare up of anger. He is already exhausted due to the impending crash of adrenaline from the small heist, and he is too tired mentally, to continue with this now pointless argument at the moment. “You know yer more’n that, so don't start.”

“I know that–” John cuts himself off, like the words he had weren’t quite the right ones. “I guess I know you’ve tried to look out for me, that you care enough about me not gettin’ myself killed, and I appreciate it as much as I hate it, I do. But Arthur,” He shakes his head slowly. “I don't think you care in the way I do. Thought once maybe you might’a. Seems I was wrong, though. And I’m an even bigger fool for it. For running ‘cause of it.”

Even though Arthur knows that isn’t exactly why John ran – none of this has been the whole of it – he has said enough half-truths to paint a clear enough picture for Arthur; painted his feelings out in murky blues and the heat of sunfire-reds. Arthur moves past John and sits down heavily upon the log in front of the campfire, gestures for John to do the same beside him. But John wordlessly declines the offer, choosing instead to stand in defiance and watch Arthur’s every small movement. John shifts his hips where he stands, crosses his arms in a way that looks like he’s hugging ‘imself, almost. Arthur suddenly feels like an intruder that don’t belong here.

Far from them, a single coyote’s shrill howl penetrates through the tense serenity of the night, soon followed by the eerie cacophony from his packmates’ song, calling back with yips and echoing barks. Both horses paw at the ground, John’s Lady seeming the most agitated outta the two. John perks up a little, watching, then scolds his horse mildly until she calms a reasonable amount.

When the howls die down, Arthur rests his forearms over his knees and holds in a breath for a few beats of his heart. Lets it out evenly. “John…” It’s a sad fact that Arthur cannot even bring himself to make eye contact in addressing John. Not while he intends to lay bare before him in an entirely new fashion. “There ain't enough fire in Hell to burn away the type’a care I got for you.”

John is silent for a time.

He hears the shuffling of John’s boot soles on the ground, him clearing his throat awkwardly. “You mean that?”

Without looking, Arthur reaches out for John with one hand. “C’mere,” he whispers. As soon as he feels the skin of John’s wrist beneath his fingertips, Arthur pulls him close. Pulls John down gently until he takes a knee between Arthur’s legs. A few seconds staring at John, with his shoulders and chest rising and falling as he breathes a little harder is all Arthur can stand. He releases John’s arm and leans forward to kiss him, hand at the back of his head, tangling in his hair. Their lips part instantly so John can kiss Arthur back hungrily as he desires. His tongue slides into Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur groans for it, for more of John. Feels hands pressing and grabbing at his shoulders with John rising on both knees. Those hands move up the sides of Arthur’s neck, cold and rough on his hot skin. John grabs fistfuls of his hair like Arthur might be the one to disappear on ‘im this time.

John presses in closer, changing the angle of his head, moaning into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur’s cock stiffens at the sound, at the way John’s teeth pinch his lips. His fingers still tugging at Arthur’s hair just this side of painful. He breaks the kiss enough to say against John’s mouth, “You can't ever know how much you mean to me, just how much it hurt thinkin’ I mighta lost you while you was out there away from us– _from me._ And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.” John pulls back a little, studying Arthur’s face. “You think _you_ were scared, John? You don’t know _shit_ about fear.”

Arthur kisses John fiercely before he can have a chance to say somethin’ stupid back to that almost-confession. He does not have the emotional fortitude to hear whatever secrets John could be keeping locked up inside his own chest.

Deft hands push open Arthur’s coat, unbuckle his belt. Without thinking, Arthur sets his hat aside. Pulls his bandolier and satchel over his head in between kissing John with an incessant greed. It’s clumsy, and more than once, he feels John smile against his mouth. John kisses across Arthur’s cheek, down his throat to where he’s got some of Arthur’s buttons undone already. The chill air hits the sweat against Arthur’s skin and he nearly shivers with it until John is giving him a new reason to tremble. Bent over between his legs, John is pulling Arthur free from his jeans and into his mouth so fast it’s enough to make a man dizzy.

For a bit too long, Arthur lets his guard down, enjoying the feeling of John’s mouth around him– the wet and warmth of it. His hands go to John’s hair, and it’s this, this and the stupid thought of wishing John’s hair was just a bit longer to really get ‘round his fingers proper, that snaps Arthur out of his haze and ironically grants him back what little smarts he’s got left.

Things are goin’ too far with them out in the open for Arthur's liking, even with the shroud of tree cover.

“The hell’re you doing, John?”

John sucks Arthur harder as he pulls off his cock. “Well gee, I dunno. Sure as hell ain't suckin’ the venom outta no snake bite. So that only leaves one other thing I could be busyin’ myself with down here.” 

Arthur quirks a brow at that smartass remark. “It ain't– this ain't safe to be doing like this here.” He motions around them, avoiding looking at John. The image bein’ too much for his splintered resolve.

“Relax, sunshine,” John massages his hands up Arthur’s thighs. “you got guns, shoot 'em if anyone comes near enough to us.”

“Right.” Arthur sniffs. “I see you uh, did a lot of growin’ up and real _maturin’_ while you was gone– _What the hell’s wrong with you?!”_ Arthur hisses down at John, still on his damn knees. Shit, seems John came back stupider, if anything. “Tent ain't that far!”

“This what it's gonna come to, then? Us... hidin’ in tents at night on jobs?”

“I'm not even gonna answer that question.” 

Arthur goes to tuck himself back into his jeans, but of course John stops him, stubborn as he is. He takes Arthur in hand, stroking him slowly. Each downward stroke revealing the wet that’s begun to leak from his pinkening cockhead, and with each purposeful upward stroke, John seems intent on pearling more slick from Arthur until it’s slowly dribbling over his fingers. And the way he’s looking at Arthur... _“Shit,”_ Arthur curses, low, bracing his weight on the log with both hands. John dips his head back down, just licking up what he can with the tip of his tongue. Arthur’s hips jerk a little at the goddamn teasing sensation of it, so he spreads his thighs more, giving John more room, too. John runs a hand to the small of Arthur’s back, fingers pressing in as lips press over the tip of his cock.

When John swallows him down again, Arthur tries to detach himself from the moment but fails miserably. John needs no encouragement, and Arthur wouldn’t deign to give any because there is still the voice in the back of his mind insistent on how wrong and unnatural this all is. John works his hand and mouth at a rhythm that makes Arthur quietly moan on every breath. He lays a hand on the back of John’s head, and John hums like it’s praise. So, giving into that thought, Arthur does praise him, because no man should be able to do this so well– _John_ shouldn’t be able to do this so well. He pets at John’s shaggy, unruly waves and asks, perhaps too unthinkingly, too brash, “Wh- where’d you learn to suck a man off so good, John? From working girls? Abigail?” And maybe Arthur says these things to break the reality of it. To spoil it. But you can’t poison that which has already long been rotten and withered in the ground.

John stops and sits back on his haunches, giving Arthur a certain _look._ It’s the look of a man with a secret who is burstin’ at the seams to spill before the guilt of it drowns him. And Arthur feels like he knows before John even speaks it.

“Weren’t the girls.”

Arthur snatches John up by the collar. “You were messin’ around while you were gone?” Arthur seethes. It is not jealousy that burns Arthur’s temper to boiling, not that at all, but the suggestion that John had been even more insensible than Arthur had feared. “Were you tryin’ to get left out in some alley, bleeding out with a goddamn knife six inches into your gut? You must got a fuckin’ deathwish, you _fool!”_ He let’s John go with a shove, and John falls back onto his hands, flinching away from the fire as he moves to the side. He looks frightened. Afraid of Arthur.

Arthur stands, fixing himself, but not bothering to rebutton his clothing just yet. “Why… why can’t you just think about consequences before you do shit like that, John?! That’s all I’ve fuckin’ _asked!_ All I want from you before you go fuckin’ up your life or someone else’s like I did!”

John just sits there, one leg tucked under him, the other bent up towards his chest. He leans forward to look up at Arthur, slinging an arm over his knee. “There was one feller I met, in New Hanover…” His voice is even and calm in the face of Arthur’s unabashed anger. There is still a tight undercurrent of fear not usually found in John’s normally casual speech, however. “Said there was plenty of men who went with other men, explainin’ it wasn’t so ‘unnatural’ and ‘deviant’ as folks liked to make it out to be. That it couldn’t be no sin, because… well, he said people picked and choosed what was wrong or right from within the Bible all on their own, anyway. Called ‘em _hypocrites._ Apparently, sodomy ain’t even really when two men–”

“John, stop. _Just stop,”_ Arthur demands. It makes him think of the couple times he’d nearly been caught, himself. The handful of men Arthur had been with when he was younger had always done things with a meanness to it. A clear self-loathing. One man was so deep in denial, he’d argued with Arthur after – incredibly one-sided, mind you – tellin’ Arthur he weren’t no _sodomite._ Asked if Arthur was ready to rot in Hell for what they got up to, ‘cause he weren’t. Then he’d tossed a few bills on the bed before leavin’ in a rush, like he was payin’ Arthur for a service or maybe to keep his mouth shut; Arthur hadn’t been sure which woulda been more likely at the time.

With his voice raised, John continues on, snapping Arthur out of his memories. _“He said,_ some of these men play at liking women– that some actually like both just fine, too. But there are these men who… maybe take wives,” Then John scoffs. “Some a’ these women even knowin’, he claimed, but I dunno. The feller said these men do it as a… well, as a front. But there are ways. To be safe.”

Arthur rubs his jaw. “So what… you– you tellin’ me all this to convince me a’ somethin’ or...?”

“Listen, I’ve known for awhile…” John frowns and looks down at his boot, fiddles a bit with the button on his spur strap. “When I was younger, I didn’t know what it meant, that I took a shine to pretty women, but felt even warmer when it came to fellas. And then I realised at some point, well… you hung the goddamn moon for me, Arthur! It’s like… feels like a _curse_ ever since.”

Shaking his head, Arthur feels heat risin’ up his neck, his face. He needs to occupy his mind with somethin’ other than John’s _confessions._ He walks over to Bo’ to fetch his camping supplies from her saddle rigging. Figuring he is too aggravated as it is, Arthur decides against pitchin’ his own tent and instead tucks his bedroll under an arm and walks over to John’s tent. There ain’t much of value in his saddle bags at the moment, so if some quiet thief were to visit them in the night, they’d only be comin’ away rich in alcohol and smokes, as far as Arthur’s belongings was concerned. 

Arthur never was much of a liar. Lyin’ meant acting, and Arthur is shit at that, he’d be the first to admit. He leaves all them kinds a’ clever dramatics to the girls, or men who could spin you a falsehood so believable, they’d have you taking a made up tale about yer own life as truth– like Hosea does, or even that damn English conman that clings to them like a burr sometimes. Despite all that, Arthur can lie to himself like nothin’ else. And he’s always aware of it, seeing through every piece of wool he attempts to pull over his own eyes, but doin’ not a damn thing about it.

So when Arthur begins unfastening and rolling out his bedroll in John’s tent, he tells himself he ain’t givin’ into John, that he ain’t succumbing to the desires he has tried snuffing out for so long. When he hears John’s questioning voice scratch his name, Arthur don’t stop the lies from cushioning his thoughts. He goes to stow away his bandolier and satchel, but looks over to John, who is still sitting on the ground beside the fire. 

“Can’t talk like that, John. You can’t,” Arthur tells ‘im plainly, and without apology.

Sleep. They’ll only sleep. Arthur just wants to be near John. Near to him like he hasn’t been in well over a year. No harm in it if they keep things innocent.

Arthur is removing his gun belt when he hears John laugh under his breath close by, then suddenly he’s next to Arthur, whippin’ him around. “Well, what about _you?”_ John’s says through clenched teeth.

“Me? John, that don’t change nothin’. You… you got responsibilities that ain’t got nothing to do with the gang, nothin’ to do _with us._ We can’t keep doin’ this. It shouldn’t be me you’s fightin’ to…” Arthur sighs. They just keep goin’ around in circles, but he does not know what other way to get through to John. He takes a deep breath. “Me and Eliza? She weren’t no _front._ We might not a’ had love for each other… like a husband and wife oughta, but even so, I learned to have an affection for her after a time, because…” Arthur looks to the dirt beneath his feet as his throat tightens and his eyes sting. “Because I loved Isaac. And he didn’t deserve anything less than a father who cared after and protected him.”

Arthur takes a few seconds to gather his wits before he looks up at John. In the firelight, Arthur can see that John’s eyes are glassy, his jaw tight. And Arthur knows he got to him, maybe. He makes sure his words are steady when he tells John, “I gave less, though. And look… look where that got me– _got them._ Because I didn’t know how to spread out my loyalties! _Didn’t try hard enough.”_

John places a hand on Arthur’s arm, squeezes. “Though I didn’t get to know them well enough, you know I’m always gonna regret you had to be put through that, Arthur. I mean it. Nobody deserves to lose people like that, least of all you. But me, and Abigail, and Jack? We ain’t the same. At least you and Eliza could stand to live under the same roof when you went off to see ‘em, right? And Jack isn’t the result a’ some one-off thing between _me_ an’ Abigail.” 

Arthur scoffs at that. So much for thinking he might’a been getting through to John, finally.

He brushes John’s hand away, surprised that John lets him so easily. Arthur reckons John must have not listened to a damn word he just said. “Look, I don’t care if the woman shot yer goddamn dick off, you got a place, _a role,_ in that baby boy’s life whether you like it or not. It ain’t about you and Abigail, just like it weren’t about me and Eliza. So goin’ out… and doin’ shit that’s gonna get you closer and closer to the grave before that boy learns to even _call you Pa,_ sure as hell ain’t provin’ you know how to handle any kinda responsibility. Think about that next time you throw a goddamn fit over us not lettin’ you get in on the dirtier work. ‘Cause I know I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout how ‘least we did our best to bring that boy home his daddy at the end a’ the night. Even if he did piss and moan ‘bout it the entire time.” 

Just like tonight– John hadn’t been thinkin’ about anything else but benefitting ‘imself. What he could do to get a leg up. Anyone that ever seen John in a shootout could tell he was a fine gunhand– more than fine, just had issues with lookin’ before he leapt into said shootouts. So the gang was the last people John should be frettin’ over impressing. The absolute last.

Arthur would tell ‘im, but right about now, John looks like a pissed-off bull ready to spit hellfire at him.

“He _ain't. Mine.”_ The words come slow, but knife-sharp in their denial. Arthur's already shaking his head at John's old and tired response, because he can't fucking take his selfishness anymore. “Jesus, how many times do I have to say it?” 

“Until you stop lyin’ to yourself and man the fuck up, John!” Arthur shoves him with both hands as John makes to turn away. But John is quick, grabs onto Arthur's arms for balance.

John tugs Arthur closer, starin’ straight in the face of Arthur’s reprehension. “I'm telling you the truth now! I always was!” He yells, voice strangled in its vehemence. John holds tight to Arthur, even as he tries to push him away again.

“You need to let go of me before I put you on yer ass. You know I will.” Arthur’d done it enough times when John was a scrappy teenager, always trying to push somebody’s buttons but never able to entirely back up what he was dishin’ out in a fistfight.

John lets him go with a disgusted look on his face.

Just wantin’ this to be over between them, this passive aggressiveness, the simmering violence in their arguments, it ain’t enough for Arthur to just let it go. He can’t just give John a pass for his transgressions against the gang, Abigail, and Jack because of the perverse nature of their affections for each other. Arthur cannot make himself part of the problem no more. Giving in to John – to what they both want out of each other – more than Arthur already has, would be like rewardin’ a dog with a treat who just got done stealin’ off the dinner table. John's self-willed attitude is his biggest flaw and Arthur is about through with it. Through with lovin’ him despite it.

“Yeah, all right,” Arthur takes John’s bait, knowin’ full well he has the ability to cut the line himself if he gets too caught up. “If you're so sure, then who's that boy's father, hm?”

“I can't tell you…” John sighs out.

“Naw, 'course you can't.” They done this dance far too many times. And it is a heavier weight on Arthur's patience each time.

“Shut the fuck up, would you? Maybe I _should_ just tell you. Get you off my fuckin’ back about _somethin’._ But you'd see this man a hell of a lot differently, Arthur. And I– I can’t do that to you. Besides, it ain't my goddamn secret to be tellin’! Me and Abigail, we haven't got along in some time. That there _ain’t_ no secret, but that doesn’t mean I don't respect her none, or her wishes. So just… _drop it,_ all right? Damn...”

It feels like ice has replaced all the blood in Arthur’s veins. A chill runs across his shoulders that’s got nothin’ to do with the brisk night.

“What’re you sayin’, exactly? So now _you_ ain’t the liar, but Abigail _is?_ You really done lost your goddamn head when you went away, huh?”

John gives him a sidelong glance. “It’s kinda like what that man told me, I guess. Some folks just make due with what cards they been dealt. Even if they gotta go on pretendin’ like they got a hand better to make it through.”

“Yeah, well, life ain’t poker, John…” Arthur feels around the pockets of his coat for his smashed pack of smokes. He straightens one cigarette out a little before placing it between his lips. John is somehow ready with a match right away. They stare at one another for a moment like two hounds facin’ off before Arthur tentatively leans in towards the tiny flame.

Arthur takes a couple drags, waiting to see if John will have some sort of retort or new argument. When it seems he doesn’t, Arthur goes and climbs in the tent. Sits his ass right in the middle of both their bedrolls.

“You really smokin’ up my tent? Can’t be moody out in the open air?” He hears John call after him. Though John can’t see him, Arthur takes a deep inhale off his cigarette, then blows smoke up towards the peak of the tent, watchin’ the way the white cloud unfurls into the shadow of it.

John crouches in front of the open flap of the tent, shakin’ his head like suddenly Arthur is the one who needs scoldin’. Arthur takes his cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, flicks it straight at John’s chest, just missin’ going down his half-open shirt front. Tiny little orange sparks fly against John’s leather vest before he is cursin’ Arthur’s name, smackin’ at himself like a perfect idiot.

Petulance ain’t somethin’ Arthur likes to find himself indulgin’ in, but that felt pretty darn good, and he can’t help the smug smile that curls his mouth.

“Don’t know why I put up with you,” John says as he undoes the toggles of his vest, wriggling out of it then pushing his suspenders off. “When yer like a bear with a sore head more often than not.” He climbs over Arthur and into the tent, then lies beside him.

“Oh, _I’m_ the one need puttin’ up with, is that it?” He looks down to see John scowlin’ as he kicks off his boots. “‘Cause my life was just peachy before we ended up with your sorry hide.”

“Yeah well, ‘m pretty sure you got your own tent to put up, if you’re so sick a’ me– I sure as shit didn’t invite you in here. So you gonna keep tryin’ to kick up a fuss or shut up and go to sleep, old man?”

Arthur chuckles under his breath, feelin’ some kinda delirious at this point. He yanks off his own boots, takes off his shotgun coat and lies back, still not intent on giving John much space. In the quiet of the tent, just listening to John breathin’ half-angrily and the occasional crackle of the fire outside, Arthur is confronted with the large handful of lies he has told himself up to this point. It ain’t just John he is refusing to give in to.

It is himself, more than anything.

Gently, he reaches out for John, pulls at his opposite shoulder until he rolls to face Arthur. John’s got a bitter expression on his face still.

“You gotta make up your mind about me.”

Smoothing his hand up and down John’s arm like he’s tryin’ to calm a flighty animal, Arthur says quietly, “I’m thinkin’ I have. But if I find out you’re lyin’ just for– just for _this…”_

Arthur doesn’t let himself finish in favour of pullin’ John in for a kiss. Immediately, John presses up against him, clinging fast to Arthur’s suspenders. He begins plucking at Arthur’s shirt placket one-handed and with an impatience that surprisingly don’t lead to any buttons bein’ ripped off. When Arthur sits up to lift his shirt over his head, John wastes no time in divestin’ himself of his own layers. Still working his own jeans off, Arthur turns to John in time to watch ‘im lifting his hips to roll his union suit off his legs.

As soon as the red fabric is tossed to the side in a bunch, Arthur is on him, thinkin’ _John_ can do the rest of the work in stripping him down. And John does, distractedly, in between Arthur kissing him feverishly.

Arthur rolls half on top of John, grinding down against his stomach while he’s got John’s lips and teeth trailing down his neck, his shoulder. John tries to meet every rock of Arthur’s body over his, tries to find a rhythm until his hand snakes its way between their bodies to grip Arthur’s cock, already intent on jerking him off steadily. 

More teasing in the touches he offers John, Arthur runs the flat of his palm up and down John’s hard length, enjoyin’ the way his body gives little quakes. The way John hisses when Arthur’s hand encircles him to pull back his foreskin, thumb rubbing below the crown of his cock.

A likely stupid idea worms its way into Arthur’s mind.

He looks down at John, who by now has mostly forgotten what he was doin’ with his own hand, it seems. Arthur watches the way John’s mouth goes slack on an inhale whenever Arthur moves his thumb in small circles; the way John closes his eyes for a couple seconds each time. He leans in to kiss John lazily, then asks against his ear, “You ever been fucked by a gentleman, John? And I'm talkin’ in a way that’s more than what we got up to before.” 

John shakes his head 'no,’ so Arthur then asks him, putting even more heat into his voice, “You ever _fuck_ a gentleman?” 

A hesitant pause, and John swallows audibly with another shake of his head. He finds enough of his voice to scrape together a very hushed, _“No, I haven’t yet.”_

When Arthur leans back, there’s somethin’ worried about the look in John’s eyes. Like now he thinks maybe Arthur is asking because of his admittance to bein’ with other men at all. Arthur muses on that for a very brief moment, scratching his thumbnail against the short stubble along his chin. He still ain’t got an ounce of jealousy for it, but feelin’ pretty sore at John for other things, he decides to mess with him a little more. “Well,” Arthur starts, voice real low. “guess you ain't goin’ to tonight, neither.”

He could almost laugh, because even in the shadows of the tent, Arthur can see John's face is broken with hardly hidden disappointment.

“That right?”

“John, you know as well as I do, I ain't no kinda _gentleman.”_

“Yeah, well I think you just might lack a bit a’ sense, yourself. 'Cause you're more gentlemanly than most men I met in my life.”

Arthur grins. “Don’t think the roughnecks you been around in yer life really qualify as shining examples of men, anyhow.” He kisses John again, longer, deeper. “Gotta grab somethin’ slick. Hang on.”

“Wait, like that Vaseline?”

In answering, Arthur leaves the warmth of John’s body to paw around for his satchel. He knows he has a small glass jar of the stuff residing somewhere at the bottom of his bag. It’s been too long for Arthur to have spit be sufficient right now. 

Past the soft jangle of velvet-cinched jewelry bags and coin purses, Arthur’s fingertips find the cool glass mold of raised lettering. He grabs the jar of petroleum jelly and crawls the short way back to John, setting the jar on the ground just above their bedrolls. The scrape of metal threading over glass fills their anticipatory silence.

Arthur dips his fingers into the jar, scooping out a generous amount. He lies back and beckons John closer. There’s a bit of wonder in John’s expression, looking at Arthur’s hand, his eyes roving over his body, but when Arthur places his other hand on John’s back, the man is tense. Practically shrinks away from Arthur’s touch. Never thought much could rattle John Marston. Kinda funny that _this_ is one thing to be makin’ him so damn anxious, 'specially when John was so eager to try an’ suck him off by the campfire.

After warming’ the Vaseline as best he can between his fingers, Arthur pulls his knees up a little, moves his hand from John’s back to grasp onto his wrist. “Calm the hell down, Marston,” he says as he directs John’s hand to his dick. “Ain’t like you a blushin’ virgin or nothin’.”

John gives Arthur a very pointed squeeze that has him jump a little. _“Fuck you.”_

“That’s the idea here,” Arthur says with a smirk.

John leans down to kiss Arthur in such a way, it seems as if it is punishment. Arthur groans and meets him in kind, keepin’ pace with the sloppy roughness of it. John’s teeth tug on Arthur’s bottom lip as he slows his hand, only focusing on the head of Arthur’s cock with tight strokes. Before Arthur can stop himself, he’s raising his hips up to chase those strokes, that base need of _more._ He blindly takes John’s hand off him, moving it down to where his slicked up fingers press and circle at his rim. For a few seconds, John barely kisses him in favour of slipping his fingertips between Arthur’s, feeling what Arthur feels. Arthur spreads the Vaseline along John’s fingers, puts a bit of pressure on his middle finger when it passes over that tight bit of muscle between his cheeks.

“Just one for now _– slowly –_ this ain’t like with a woman,” Arthur murmurs against John’s mouth. He feels John’s heart rabbiting against his own chest as he presses his fingertip forward.

It's about as awkward feeling as Arthur recalls; it always is at first. That message from his brain to his body that gets the whole of him wanting to balk at somethin’ so intimately intrusive. Arthur guides John's hand, the slow in-and-out of his finger, until he's up to the last knuckle. He moves his own hand away to pump loosely at John's cock, revelling in the bright moan that earns him as John presses his forehead against Arthur's temple. 

_“God, Arthur…”_ John presses a kiss beside Arthur's eye. “Wanna fuck you.”

Arthur knows John's current unwise impatience comes more from a _particular_ inexperience than anything. “Just a little more,” Arthur assures him. “Use another one, just as slow.”

John gives a small nod. “Never knew how bad I did. How I wanted it.” Two fingers push into Arthur then, not quite as slow as he woulda preferred. But then John's palming his balls, fingers almost brushing that spot inside that always turns this act over into pleasure.

“That's it… curve your fingers a little. Slower, but keep ‘em moving.” Arthur swears when John follows that direction almost too perfectly. From head to toe, he wills his body to relax more, to give into the sounds he muffles into John's shoulder. To focus on the warmth blooming low inside him with each easy thrust of John's fingers.

He thinks about what it is to be in love with John in this moment.

Reaching above their heads, Arthur grabs up the small jar again. He gets his hand messier, and John jolts slightly when Arthur wraps that hand around him again, palm sliding against John’s heated skin so much easier than before. And soon, John is sighin’ against Arthur’s cheek, teeth grazing the curve of his jaw as he moves to kiss at Arthur’s neck. 

He loves that he can somehow bring out a feralness in John, prod a wild thing inside him that is gnashing to pierce its way through John’s skin and bones just to get to Arthur.

Arthur thinks John is slickened up enough, that he himself is ready as he is gonna be too. He brings one arm ‘round John’s waist and urges him even closer. “That’s good now, c’mere,” he tells John and waits for him to move his fingers and hand away reluctantly. True nervousness creeps slowly across Arthur’s skin now. They both wipe the mess from their hands off on the bedrolls. Arthur bunches some of the material together to pillow the small of his back, adjusts to get comfortable and spreads his legs wider to accommodate John’s narrow hips.

John stares down at Arthur as he moves over him, hesitancy evident in the careful way he lays his weight down to one side, propped up on his forearm. “I uh, I take it this goes a bit differently as well?” John rubs his hand up and down Arthur’s inner thigh, duckin’ his head to hide an endearingly bashful smile that does strange things to Arthur’s heart he’d much rather be ignoring.

“Just take your damn _time._ And that wasn’t sarcasm, by the way. So don’t think that’s permission to be lazy.”

Snickering like a fool, John kisses him. It helps take Arthur’s mind off what comes next. He feels John’s knuckles purposefully brush his dick as he reaches down between their bodies, feels John’s weight shift forward. Then pressure, tight and blunt with the burn of John slowly pressing himself in. A little further and John gasps over Arthur’s lips. He’s stock-still, letting Arthur adjust. Arthur cradles the side of John’s head with one hand and with the other, tips John’s chin down for another kiss, smiling each time their mouths meet.

John hugs his arm under Arthur’s shoulder, grips onto him and rocks forward a fraction. “Jesus fuckin’ _Christ,_ Arthur…” he pants. “You good?”

“Yeah… tell you if I ain’t. So don’t go fussin’ over me now.” Arthur finally gets his fingers around John’s hair to push a few dirty tendrils behind his ears like he has been wantin’ to. In the dark, Arthur can still make out the way John’s eyes go wide at his tenderness. Arthur lifts his right knee, presses his hips down just to see the instant change in John’s expression. The way he furrows his brow, cants his head to the side with another small back and forth push and pull of his hips. That mouth a’ John’s that’s usually runnin’ quicker than his temper, quiets to the shaky puffs of breath he lets out, quiets to kiss Arthur again and again.

Arthur’s grunt of minimal discomfort is swallowed up by John, by his lips and damnable tongue, by John’s own low groans when he fully seats himself forward inside Arthur. He moves with a commendable patience Arthur didn't think he had in 'im. So Arthur entertains the restlessness he has been quelling and brings both legs up to cage John's waist with his knees. He grabs John by the back of the neck. “I'm all right,” he murmurs. John's response is a nod and another quiet moan before his body moves into Arthur's with an earnestness borne of Arthur’s verbal permission.

With what appears to be a mind for somethin’ to prove to Arthur still, John manhandles him, tucks his hand under Arthur's ass, blunt fingernails digging into flesh as he tugs Arthur’s hips upwards. John straddles his thighs wider, grinds his pelvis lower. Arthur cries out shamefully with the angle John now drives his cock into him. Feels his body unravel and composure dyin’ away from under the press of John’s lungs, his fingers and rough hands; the hard slide of his cock, the stubble burning the skin of his throat when John drags his lips there over and over.

The tent is flooded with the scent of their shared sweat and the rhythm their breathing heaves to; little gusts tasted on a kiss across tongues or over damp skin. Skin Arthur tries to get his fill of, dragging his thumbs down John’s chest to scrape nails over his nipples until John is hissin’ curses and fuckin’ Arthur into the hard ground.

John is like a smooth, fine brandy to an alcoholic that just fell off the wagon. Prickling down his throat and makin’ a home inside the hot rush of his veins. A man could get addicted to this if he didn't savour it right. The smoke of his voice urging Arthur on curls inside his belly, wetting appetites he had long grown into the acceptance of forever being starved.

Arthur tangles himself in John with the vehemence of his anger and pain, lets John bruise away the ripening of regret on his conscience with each low dig of his hip bones. He claws at John's back, fingers countin’ this stolen time frame down the ladder of John's spine.

“'M sorry I left you like I did.” John’s voice is deep gravel coated in lust and agony, cutting into Arthur like the hatchet he is so desperate to bury between them.

Arthur brings his hands through John’s hair, pulls his head up so he can catch his eyes. “Don’t you start with that. Not now,” he breathes out. 

John tries to shake his head in disagreement, or maybe he just wants to turn away from facing Arthur and the weight of all a’ this, but Arthur refuses to let him. Holds his grip firm yet gentle on John’s face.

That slow swell of pleasure inside Arthur threatens to spill over with each bump of John's cock against a certain place within his body. But it’s like John is chasin’ Arthur’s forgiveness in the same way he is chasin’ his release. There is a different movement to his body. The touches offered to Arthur seek something else that he ain’t daring to put a name to. By faint firelight cast into the tent, Arthur watches the change in John’s eyes too, presses his thumb over John’s lips until they part. Arthur bites down on his own bottom lip and reaches down to squeeze the hand John has on his hip. _“Harder,”_ he goads John. _“C’mon, I know you got it in you.”_

It’s as if John has been waitin’ for that commandment, because he ruts into Arthur with total abandon and none of his former hesitancy. His fingers dig almost painfully into the muscle of Arthur’s ass. John lifts Arthur’s hips off the ground with each purposeful thrust. Pulsing tension builds between Arthur’s legs again. The drag of John’s stomach along his dick ain’t quite enough, even though his own low whimpers would embarrassingly say otherwise. Arthur spits into his palm, drifts his hand down so he can fist his cock. But John’s hips stutter forward in a broken pace. A few hushed expletives leave John’s mouth before he knocks his forehead against Arthur’s, nearly smashin’ their goddamn noses together. He kisses Arthur as hard as he fucks him, moans Arthur’s name with sudden desperation. Mouth open against Arthur’s as he comes with a few deep jerks, lingering deliciously on the last. Arthur licks at John’s lips, feelin’ like he could go off too, just from hearing him, from feeling John fill him that deeply.

John’s got other plans, apparently.

Arthur don’t even got time to savour the softening of John’s cock inside him, because John is moving down his body in a lazy crawl, arms coming around his thighs to keep them spread. Arthur slows his hand to intermittent pulls on his shaft. The faint prick of John’s stubble is a pleasant sensation that makes Arthur's breath hitch a little as John rests his cheek against the inside of one thigh. His eyes are cast downward, the curve of his back still a rapid rise and fall as he tries to catch his breath.

“Goddamn… wish I could see you better.” Arthur only realises the meaning behind John’s words when he brings a hand down to knead at one cheek of Arthur’s ass, thumb brushing close to his hole. John pulls the puckered skin taut for a brief moment. In a small dribble, Arthur feels John’s come leak out of him.

 _“John–”_ Arthur tries to protest, tries pushing John’s hand away. His face is on fire with a bloom he's damn sure is the colour of scarlet. Jesus, Arthur feels like he might just combust right there with the depth of John’s depravity.

John just smiles crookedly at Arthur, gives a gentle bite to the inside of one of his knees. Ducks his head down at the same time he takes hold of Arthur's length. John laps up the small, sticky mess pooled right below Arthur's belly button; a wide laving of his tongue along the dense hair. He strokes Arthur a couple times, presses his lips to the tip of Arthur's cock. Arthur can feel 'imself jump in John's grasp. 

That obscene kiss turns into John sliding his lips fully over Arthur's cockhead, sucking with tight pressure as he goes. His tongue massages the underside until Arthur’s dick hits the back of John's throat with a soft nudge. They both groan, even as John gags a little. Arthur has one hand tangled in John's hair, the other in his own. This must be some kinda new, slow torture.

Arthur concentrates on the wet sounds of John's mouth, the tight friction of his spit-slicked hand working him, too. The view might be what does Arthur in, though. That animalistic look in John's dark eyes, his lips stretched over Arthur's length. The glimmer of the campfire reaches inside the tent just enough to gild one side of John's body. Light hitting each muscle movement perfectly.

Tension finally snaps inside Arthur before he can warn John properly. He still tries to strangle out a warning. John is groaning so sweetly in response, and the vibrations of it send Arthur flyin’ head first over the edge. He starts fucking up into John's mouth slightly, enjoying too much the muffled, appreciative sounds it earns him. Stomach muscles fluttering, Arthur tries to keep himself quiet as possible. Presses his lips together. John picks up the pace though, goddamn him. Arthur comes hard, shooting down John's throat, and moaning with the last of the breath left in his lungs.

John sucks him through the haze of his aftershocks. Although his head is feelin’ dumb and heavy, Arthur is brought back to reality when John's mouth starts becoming too much.

Body still twitchin’ lightly with release, Arthur combs his fingers through John’s hair in a bid to get his attention. “Hey, c’mon. John.” The messy sound John's mouth makes as he finally pulls off Arthur's surprisingly still-hard dick has him sighing in residual want. John climbs on top of him, lips immediately upon Arthur's. Their cocks brush with John hovering over Arthur like a predatory shadow. Without thought, Arthur parts his lips, tongue seeking out John's.

He’d never fully tasted himself on another person’s tongue before.

It is and isn’t pleasant. Thinks maybe he could enjoy the thick, salt-tang of John much more. Even still, it sends a warmth through Arthur, and he keeps delving in for more. He reaches down to cup at the warmth between John’s legs, just to feel the soft heft of him there. Grasps John to trail the still-wet tip of his dick along his own. Gives a light squeeze to stroke out a remaining drop. Arthur breaks their kiss to tilt his head down and watch the tackiness he paints his saliva-damp flesh with.

John lets out a long, pleasured exhale. “Just gimme maybe fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to go again if you’re gonna keep at me like this.”

“Well, ‘least I know there’s some things you don’t do in half-measures.” Arthur chuckles and pulls John completely down on top of him.

What is he doing? Even as he kisses John to shut 'im up from sayin’ anything that could ruin this moment, Arthur knows his guilt will soon find a way to bury it in excuses and warnings. Bells for the latter are already chiming a hollow echo inside his head. Tellin’ him to patch up the holes John has found a way to chip into his walls.

Good don't come for those he has held dear in his life. Time and experience has taught Arthur that closeness and an open heart only reaps pain for him and anyone he clears a path for. So he has kept his emotions gated and locked, fences too high to scale. Thought he'd run out of people who felt he was worth the futile effort.

He lets John curl into him anyway after they dress. Not carin’ the smallest bit for modesty, but at least their union suits can afford them a ruse that two naked men sharing a tent together cannot. They tuck themselves best they can into both rumpled bedrolls. The quiet that threatened to swallow Arthur whole the first time they did somethin’ like this comes creeping back, flooding around them like treacherous, dark waters.

For the first time in a long while, Arthur throws his fears out into the open. Like tossin’ out a lasso with both eyes closed, not knowing where it’ll catch… _or what._

“Don’t you ever run off like that again. You hear me?” He hugs John closer, tighter. Wants to add in, _I won’t come lookin’ next time,_ but can’t speak such a brutal lie to John. Doesn't even know if anyone told him how Arthur had searched. The potential promise that lost letter at the train station held for him for months.

John pulls a leg over one of Arthur’s. Presses his face into his cheek. “I won’t. On my life, I won’t, Arthur. Don’t ever wanna lose your trust like that again.”

Arthur bites his tongue to prevent another lecture from slippin’ out. Tells himself to enjoy the sensation of John just barely rubbing the tip of his nose against his face. Tries not to smile when he can tell the moment John wrinkles his nose at the rough catch of Arthur’s stubble.

“Who said I trusted you again?” Arthur feigns a deathly seriousness. The smirk he has been tryin’ to suppress cracks his face wide the second John lifts his head with a look that’s stumbling the line somewhere between a scowl and a painful amount a’ worry. Arthur presses a finger to the deep crease cut between John’s brow. “Oh, _stop._ You’ll get wrinkles.” John lays his head back down beside Arthur’s with a huff right in his ear.

“Good. Maybe you’ll stop treatin’ me like I’m s’damn young then. You would think bein’ on my own for a year and _not dyin’_ woulda been enough to show that.”

“Yeah– how’d you fare out there in that big, bustlin’ world of civilisation, anyhow? Ain’t no kinda fool to think you went straight for that long, Marston.”

The pause John lets dangle between them swells with the guilt radiating off him.

“...Thievin’ for what amounted to pocket change mostly, so I wouldn't get caught. Bounties here and there, funnily enough. Felt bad 'bout those, sometimes. Fellas worse off than me, just tryna get by. Got real good at poker, too. Then got the shit kicked outta me ‘cause I guess I got too good. Had to go back to strictly robbin’ ‘cause I wasn’t allowed back in the Valentine saloon for a good while there.”

Jesus. John's fuckin’ lucky his ass ain't got no bounties of 'is own yet. Lucky he didn't bring his solo run to an abrupt stop at the end of a rope. Arthur's stomach lurches with the thought.

“You get caught cheatin’?”

“No. _I resent that,_ thanks.”

John shifts around, with no small flair of attitude, until he is lying half-atop Arthur. His hand finds its way under Arthur’s unbuttoned collar, smoothing the fabric outta his way. Slow fingers run through the hair across his chest. Arthur doesn’t know – does not remember – what to do with this kind of intimacy.

“John, just… next time you feel like running...” Arthur sighs, knowing all too well what it can be like to wanna break away from the gripping throes of gang life. Always on the run, never settling. Arthur was a teenager when he’d started runnin’ with Dutch and Hosea; he’d known what some semblance of a “normal” life could be before then. Tried to give that to Eliza and Isaac, not bring about the darkness that followed his own father before he met his end right in front of him. But instead of Arthur payin’ for the life he still insisted on being led by, it was them two. Innocence his red hands had so easily stained, no matter how much safe distance he tried to keep, or how often. Didn’t matter none. Just the world tryin’ to remind Arthur of his place in it. A hard shove towards the bed he’d made. One that would surely end up the one he died in too, boots on and all.

There’s a millstone that never gets any lighter 'round your neck, with the knowledge you got others’ lives depending on you. But it also comes with knowin’ the very way you _make_ a living to provide, could get you all killed even still. And Arthur don’t want that for John. What he wants for John, is to know someday, what normalcy and living look like when they go hand-in-hand. He wants that for Abigail and Jack, too. John has a goodness in him still, that can be revived by proper means. Arthur just knows those two could be the rainwater to the parts of John so clearly parched. 

All Arthur has ever been to those who dared to get close enough is a goddamn blight. As much as the gang likes to speak of themselves as family, it ain't no way for somebody to be brought up in. Not for someone joining in at John’s young age, and certainly not to be born into like little Jack. There's a straight line for each one of 'em to walk, and it don't lead to no comfortable homesteader's life, holsters and bandoliers hung up for good. No matter Dutch's pretty speeches of ideal providence in store for them.

Arthur is aware of his long stretch of silence only when John is whisperin’ his name.

“You come to me first, okay? Next time.” he finally finishes. Hopes there won't have to be a next time at all.

“Yeah. _Okay,”_ John answers impatiently. But seemingly understanding Arthurs bout of stillness for deep thought, he doesn’t argue the request.

“We still… John, we gotta talk about… well, _this.”_ Arthur gestures to their prone forms, entwined. John flinches, but gets himself impossibly closer. As if someone or something else is going to take Arthur away from him. Plucked right out of his arms. Maybe he already knows Arthur himself is the most immediate threat to whatever it is they have.

“Gotta talk about it tonight?”

“No… guess we don't. Not tonight.”

* * *

Come morning, Arthur wakes alone. He is used to this kinda solitude, even more so when it came to secret embraces you had to pretend never happened. Not that many men invited him into the comfort of a bed to begin with. But with John, it somehow gets this sick squirming of anxiety to wriggle its way into his chest, kickin’ out the cottony warmth that had been nestin’ there.

He wonders if this sort of quick escape from bed was another learned thing for John when he was gone. Slippin’ away before angry contradictions could be made under the heat of shame and morning light.

Dressed, Arthur tends to their horses. Boadicea had drifted herself to the outskirts of the trees, fetchin’ herself her own breakfast. But she always knows better than to stray too far. Upon seeing Arthur, she nickers in an impatient tone. So Arthur grabs two mealy apples from one of the saddlebags at her side when she makes her way to him, one as his apology for Bo’, the other for Lady. A sorry given to her for gettin’ a new owner two days ago the likes of John, and bein’ brought into such an adventure already.

Arthur finds John on the opposite side of their little wooded hideout, leaning one shoulder against a tall, high-branched pine tree, ankle crossed over the other. He admires, a little too much likely, the tapered shape of John’s dark silhouette. Wants to get his hands on that slim waist. Memories of last night dance through Arthur’s mind, thinkin’ about how he’d probably left a criss-crossing pattern of red marks along the width of John’s broad shoulders. 

Arthur scratches at the back of his head, tugging at his own hair a bit, trying to wrest those kinds of thoughts from out of his mind.

He turns back, grabs his journal from his things before the possible end to this moment, and quickly sketches out the blackened edges of John's lean body against the towering tree, wishin’ he could limn them like the sunrise has, but he only has shades of grey to work with.

He flips to the next page, allowing his thoughts to roam freely. The same way his eyes did when they found the hungriness inside John's while he knelt between Arthur’s legs. He tries to capture that stare on the page, feelin’ a blush wash over his face all the while. Sketchin’ lines that hold a lewdness he'd never put to paper before. John's hands dug into his thighs, his lips stretched over him. Feels a slight embarrassment when his hand must draw the shape for the base of his own cock beneath John's mouth.

“Christ…” Arthur murmurs to himself. He is thoroughly caught up in John’s snare. Messed up in a way he has not felt since Mary. He goes back a page, begins jotting down his thoughts on the train job next to the more discrete drawing of John. Writes about how John nearly fouled everything up with his overconfidence. Then vague mentions of their night together, and how he wishes he could speak to Abigail about all this. Arthur includes a last musing on just what John meant when he told Arthur he’d think differently of the man who is supposedly Jack’s “actual” father. A riddle Arthur ain’t keen to wrap his head around, but knows he eventually will at a later time when it nags at him once more.

Arthur snaps his journal shut and shoves it into his satchel. He makes his way to John with quiet steps.

“See, you _can_ get up early.” Arthur says in announcement of his presence. “Twice now I been witness to it. Up with the dawn, no less.” He tilts his head in the direction of the sun peaking halfway over the sharp cuts of snow-capped mountains far off in the distance. They border prairie fields that roll into varying shades of golds and emerald, the sun's rays just barely reaching their fingers out to illuminate what looks to be a scattered herd of pronghorn.

John looks over his shoulder, a mild, pissy look pinching his features. “Can’t sleep as well as I’d like next to you, turns out. You make me think too much.”

Truth is, Arthur also slept lighter than usual last night. He’d fought against his restlessness best he could, and by the counting of each breath John took, Arthur tried to stall the circles his mind insisted on runnin’ him around in. So when he woke again and John was gone, well… he gave up that struggle.

Arthur gives a low whistle. “We can’t be havin’ that now. Might hurt yerself puttin’ that stagnant brain a’ yours through so much work.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He walks around John to face him. The whole line of his body, as casual as he is tryin’ to seem, gives off a clear agitation. Something guarded, waiting to hit the ground runnin’ or lash out if need be. Arthur takes John’s face in his hands.

“You’re blockin’ my view.” John takes a sip of coffee from the tin cup in his hand, moves his other arm to cross over his ribcage. Arthur thinks if both John’s hands were free, he’d be crossin’ his arms like a pouting child right now.

Turning to glance at the fluffy indigo clouds now soaking in colours of deep magenta, Arthur asks, “Oh, that?” in a nonchalant tone. John tries to wrestle his face from Arthur’s hands, but Arthur don’t let up. “You’d get to see plenty more sights like this if you didn’t stay in that tent a’ yours ‘til after Pearson’s ringin’ the lunchtime bell.”

“Yeah, what reason do I got to be up so damn early?”

“Well,” Arthur leans in close, smiling. “Get up with me from now on, and maybe I’ll show you.”

Arthur didn’t mean it as the innuendo they both hear. John sucks in a breath through his nose and his eyes cast over Arthur’s shoulder briefly.

“I get it. I know we can’t– can’t be together.” There is a fire in John’s eyes, only made more intense by the rising sun warming Arthur’s back. “And I know you ain’t the only one I owed an apology to, so you can save yourself the trouble of remindin’ me. But I’ve given it. I’ve tried to make amends with Abigail, I have. We don’t _fit,_ Arthur. Don’t know how else to tell it. She deserves somebody that ain’t me, anyway. If she wants me to watch out for the kid, look after him in a way, I’ll sure as hell try, but I don’t know what I’m doin’, and I told her that. Promised her I wouldn’t run off again, too. Same as you. Shit, that boy deserves better than he got as a father, sure. But I’m inclined to believe he deserves a hell of a lot better than me, too. Somebody that can be a real man to look up to, not some fuckin’ inverted, deviant–”

Arthur grabs John by the shoulders and gives him a shake. “Hey!” John curses him as his coffee sloshes over the rim of his cup. “I don’t want you ever, _ever_ sayin’ shit like that again. Most especially ‘bout yourself.” Arthur attempts to lighten up his voice, realising how desperate he is soundin’, though he keeps it lowered still. “Now what happened to all that hopeful talk you was making last night, about what that feller you met told you?”

Instead of answering, John drops his coffee and latches onto Arthur’s shirtfront, pullin’ him in for a passionate kiss. Arthur presses John up against the tree, feels his hands grip tight at his chest. The kiss is like a match flame, burning hot in an instant, but out the next. John breaks away, but Arthur clutches his face again, wanting to bring their mouths together. Not interested in yet another battle with words.

John stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “What reason I got to be hopeful, Arthur?”

He finally lets Arthur close again, so Arthur kisses him softly this time. Closes his eyes and rests his forehead against John’s. 

“I know I got a ways to go before you really forgive me, and I can’t force you to. Just like I couldn’t with Abigail. But I’m near to beggin’ for it if it means I get more of you. Just let me have you in-between, I don’t care. God…” John’s voice is a ragged, broken thing by the time he stops speaking. Quiet in the way he pleads. It fractures Arthur wholly in half.

Arthur brushes his thumbs along John’s lips, the small scab slashing through his eyebrow, below the wet eyes that avoid his face. “We can have these moments. Can’t go around bein’ stupid about it. For our safety, and for Abigail and Jack’s, you understand? You can’t have me in-between, John.” John takes a shaky gulp of air and tries to pull away from Arthur, but stills when Arthur keeps on talkin’. “Because _life_ is what’s in between you and me. That’s where everything else is. We’re on the outside, ain’t nothin’ to be done about that. But we can have moments.”

John barely nods. Other than that, he doesn't say a word. Doesn’t look Arthur in the eye, only grapples for another heated kiss that has Arthur wanting to get down on his knees and ask John for his own forgiveness.

There is a solemness in the air as they break down John’s camp, can’t be helped. They share a few tentative touches, but Arthur cannot take the familiar sadness filling John's eyes. With every item packed up, Arthur feels like he is packin’ away their closeness, their secret.

Not even the ride back together, past prairies teeming with life and the vibrancy of Montana on the cusp of spring, can colour Arthur's mood into anything brighter. Just more goddamn shades of grey is all he can find in the path that lay before them.

Eventually, Arthur realises that they must split up, so as not to arouse any suspicions. If not for why they're returning together, after being separated from Bill and Javier, then to at least smooth out any potential worries about a job that went a little sideways.

After Arthur offers to be the one to lag behind, John agrees, but quickly brings his horse to a stop. He turns Lady around and calls out to Arthur.

“No matter what…” John rubs the side of his neck in a nervous manner. Plays with his shirt collar. He drops his hand and Arthur can see the deep breath John takes. “You’re mine, and I'm yours, Arthur. When it comes down to it.” He looks to Arthur, the boy clearly scared out of his damn wits.

Arthur’s chest flutters. Maybe it's his stomach. Hell, he can't tell. He just knows he wishes they weren't sat on these damn horses so he could kiss John right now. He settles for reassuring John with words. “Even in the in-between.”

John dips his head, right hand fumbling in the air above his forehead for a hat brim he doesn't have to hide under. But Arthur doesn't miss the small smile on his face before John is off, spurring Lady into a gallop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my lorddd. Okay, this was an absolute BEAST to edit, so please excuse any mistakes my eyes may have missed :')  
> Thank you guys for reading!!<3


	6. Lean to My Wound, Burn On (1898)

_Of all the causes which conspire to blind  
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind,  
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,  
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.  
Whatever Nature has in worth denied,  
She gives in large recruits of needful pride;  
For as in bodies, thus in souls, we find  
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind;  
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,  
And fills up all the mighty void of sense!  
If once right reason drives that cloud away,  
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day;  
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,  
Make use of ev'ry friend—and ev'ry foe._

\- Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Criticism"

* * *

Wood grates lightly over wood. It is slight at first, probably unnoticeable. At most, dismissible. Another minute or so passes before a sound that is more of a splintering whine-and-thud than a damn scrape sounds out into the small room. John laughs into Arthur’s neck, hot breath reeking of rye whiskey. Arthur has half a mind to throw him out the damn window he crawled himself in through. The four foot drop wouldn’t break no bones, but Arthur is thinkin’ John’s alcohol-soaked ego could use a good bruising right about now.

And then, the side of his cot’s goddamn frame knocks against the wall...

John moans and cries out. _“Fuck!”_

Arthur’s hands are on John’s waist immediately, halting another forceful snap of his hips that is likely to break the rickety cot against the fucking wall. He glares up at John, who has a crooked grin plastered on his face despite the fact that he’s breathing hard, hands still braced against the wall on either side of Arthur’s head. They hear no one. No footsteps, no voices, and most thankfully, no knocks on the unlocked door. Not that John is listenin’ to anything other than his libido at the moment.

“You _tryin’_ to get us caught, Marston?” Arthur says through gritted teeth. “Or you get s’drunk you forget where we were, huh?”

It’s Arthur’s hope that Dutch and Molly are sound asleep one room over, but he is not lookin’ to place no kinda bets on it. The room Arthur had taken in this abandoned ranch home is little more than a glorified storage closet in its cramped size. He’d made sure to arrange his cot up against the wall beside the only window in hopes it would further prevent certain _sounds_ from not carrying into the surrounding rooms. Arthur had somehow not accounted for John’s carelessness, though.

“I’m sorry! But it’s been too long, and…” John trails off into another half-obnoxious moan, dragging his hips forward, dropping his head between his shoulders. Shoulders Arthur cannot help but grip onto. Arthur wishes his own dick wasn’t betrayin’ him right now, because it _has_ been too long. Too long since he fucked John. Too damn long since they got up to _anything_ after moving further northeast.

Arthur’s eyelids flutter shut with every forward sway of John’s hips. John goes at a slower pace until it seems he must really want them thrown out on their bare asses, left to freeze to death in the mountains or be cold supper for some desperate wild beast. That certainly wouldn’t even be the worst of possible scenarios. Arthur tries not to think about a sharp gelding knife or any other slow torture he don’t know which one of the gang might be sadistically capable of. Gettin’ shot would likely be the best that could happen to John and him if they were caught in camp.

The cot creaks against the floorboards again. Arthur’s fingers dig hard into John’s sides.

“This how you and Mary had to carry on?” John asks through both pleasure and amusement. “How’d you keep her quiet back when you was sneakin’ into her family’s big ol’ mansion?”

“That’s it, we are doin’ this my way.” Arthur promptly lifts John off his lap and lays ‘im towards the head of the cot, quiet as he can manage. Though John ain’t much help with that– drunken, laughing deadweight as he is.

John had taken to throwing more and more bitter barbs at Arthur – concernin’ Mary – the past year. Some even for women John imagined himself bein’ jealous of, who frankly just did not exist. Wallowing at the bottom of a bottle does not help none, of course. But Arthur got used to it after a time. Still likes the drinkin’ John does a whole lot less than the words he speaks in frustration and indignation, though. The drinkin’... John always means that. Fully and honestly.

“Oh, c’mon… your way– your way’s too soft.”

“Soft’s all yer gonna be if you don’t calm yourself and _keep quiet.”_ Arthur crawls over John, who for all his current complaints, doesn't hesitate in getting his long legs around Arthur’s waist. He slowly sinks back into John, tries not to let out much more than a long hum deep in his chest when he feels the tight grip of John's warmth once more.

John's hands clutch the back of Arthur's neck while he keeps a steady pace of shallow thrusts that have John squirming beneath him. The cot doesn’t creak or wobble as badly anymore like this, however. Past the breathy noises John is making, Arthur does not hear much else in the house. He waits until John is tipping his head back against the pillows, eyes closed, lost in his own head again before deeming it safe to take his own pleasure from John’s body. Arthur bottoms out and rocks into John a little harder. Hooks the crook of his elbow under one of John’s knees, presses ‘imself forward sharply. Despite the brief interruption and distracted mindset, Arthur already feels himself gettin’ close. He’d missed this false privacy with John far too much. Partially ‘cause it seems the more they must pretend, the more they end up creating a real contempt for the other.

Too many faked fights turned into honest ones. But that seems to sit just right with the rest of the gang for now.

“C’mon, Arthur. _Harder._ 'M gettin’ there,” John slurs.

Arthur leans up to kiss him. “I want to, trust me. But you know I can't.”

“Right… ain’t _safe._ Goddamn, piece a’ shit cot... Then– then look at me, huh?”

 _Too much_ time together means Arthur knows exactly what John is hintin’ at when he says that. Knows that glazed, intent stare better than his own ugly reflection. Somewhere along the line, John found he enjoyed when Arthur watches him touch himself, more especially if he has a slick hand around the both of them.

Arthur holds his weight up to one side, forcing John’s bent knee even further towards his chest. He looks down between them; just enough meagre candlelight glows warm against their skin. John's hand moves rapidly over the head of his cock. He tenses more and more with every deep thrust Arthur delivers.

“Ah… t-tell me,” John manages to breathe out, tryin’ his best to keep himself under control and get words to fight free of his taut throat.

Arthur does not quite know when they formed this strange language of knowin’ the other so well through half-uttered phrases and requests; gazes held too long across the camp, or small touches in or out of beds and bedrolls alike.

“You're good, John. Real good. Look at you.” The praise rolls off Arthur's tongue like cool water to soothe John's almighty heat. It comes easy, because it is made of the things Arthur wants to say, but cannot in the face of their complicated farce. “Let me feel it… feel you go off, c’mon…” he says softly. _“Tell me how you need it.”_

“Deeper. I’ll be… swear I’ll be quiet.”

Arthur obeys the broken words easily, shifting his hips so he's pressed hard against John's ass. Moves into him in such a way that he can just barely curl his pelvis forward than actually thrust anymore. He moans when he feels John's body flutter and clench around every inch of him seconds before John is crying out in hushed, gasping tones of his own. This is just another thing Arthur had been longin’ for– the thoroughly intimate knowledge of each other’s bodies. 

He is pulled down into a searing kiss, quickly quieting them both. This is the part he would hate to miss, though. Arthur parts from John’s lips just in time to watch him painting his own stomach in a few milky white streaks, the rest dribbling down and over his fingers.

Even if he thought there was still a god worth believin’ in, Arthur could be content having built a private religion for one outta this right here: what he gets out of loving John in the physical sense. That he can make John feel like this at all, even if only ever in stolen moments.

As Arthur pulls out, John grips his dick with a hand still freshly slicked in his come. His palm slides wet and messy. The goddamn _sound_ of it provokes the shame always clingin’ to Arthur’s back to digging its claws in more forcefully, never lettin’ him forget the taboo line they toe, despite what this all stirs inside him.

Bucking his hips into John’s fist in a way that likely makes John jealous he didn’t quite get the same treatment, Arthur lets go. Loses himself to the sensation of John’s hand when it feels too damn good to listen to anything else but his body’s wants and John’s encouraging hums.

Too soon, Arthur feels that tightness in his lower belly cresting high. “Fuck… fuck…” he pants, placing his hand over John’s to help him keep rhythm. Glances up at John’s face and musters up enough sense – or perhaps a complete loss of it – to brokenly speak John’s name. John wraps an arm around Arthur’s shoulders to press him down closer. Lays rough, open-mouthed kisses to Arthur’s cheek and temple. Whispers things Arthur ain’t coherent enough to understand. And then Arthur is coming to the sound of John’s voice in his head, arms almost full-on givin’ out with the unexpected force of it. Arthur groans into the side of John’s neck much louder than his discretion would normally allow for. John’s lips are at his ear, moving against his hair, still faintly murmuring things that maybe Arthur is not meant to know.

When he feels as if he ain’t got much more to give, even though John’s hand remains slow yet persistent beneath Arthur’s loose grip, he finally collapses on top of John, heedless of their mess. A low whimper against John’s sternum is all he can momentarily offer in lieu of words, dragging teeth in a mock bite along John’s skin.

“Christ, John. Somehow… somehow you make me feel even… Shit. _Older.”_ Arthur focusses on catching his breath while John scrapes dull nails up his sweat-damp back. His chest shakes with silent laughter beneath Arthur’s ear.

“Don’t even have to try. Now, imagine if I did. What I’d do to you if we could really be alone.”

“John.” Arthur feels torn up inside that John’s name is becoming synonymous with the start of unspoken further reprimanding. Things have been getting too close with them for months now, though. Jesus Christ, they have. Suffocating, even with the imaginary distance they put between one another. Like each inhale is the other’s exhale. Too goddamn close. Arthur just doesn’t know when to fix the walls John keeps tearing down, or how. The tools to shut out this thing between them for good have always been in Arthur’s possession; he knows that. Would be a colossal idiot to deny it. But he ain't of a mind to be breakin’ his back for that sort of unprofitable labour.

John lets out a lengthy sigh through his nose. “Yeah. Right– sorry.” He makes a half-hearted attempt at wriggling out from under Arthur’s boneless weight. “C’mon, it ain’t my intention to let this shit dry until we’re stuck together. Don't much feel like washin’ up in a freezing pond, neither. So move and let me fetch a handkerchief and get dressed, would you, Morgan? S’cold enough as it is now that we ain’t... movin’ around.”

It’s true, Arthur’s also reminded of the frigid nip in the air without his blood pumping solely for John. The heat of John’s lean body is helping stave off the chill too, of course. Both of which Arthur is not entirely set on losing right away. They could never spend the whole of a night together in camp, that would be a new kind of deadly stupid, even for the two of ‘em. But that does not stop Arthur from always enjoying when John lingers. “You ain’t gotta go runnin’ off so soon, then. And come on now, don’t– don’t call me that… It’s… strange now, I guess.”

“An’ why’s that? Too impersonal? Thought that’s what we was about. You got not a single problem callin’ me by my last name plenty over the years.”

John tries getting off the cot again, so Arthur moves for him, not at all liking where it seems this’ll be heading. Bickerin’ over more dumb shit. “Well– yeah, guess that’s true, but… But you never called–”

“Helps trick people better, don’t it? Thinkin’ I don’t care for you in any such way.” John grabs his dingy handkerchief from the pocket of his coat on the floor. Wipes down his hand, then the front of himself with quick motions. Arthur looks down at the smeared mess on his own stomach when John tosses the soiled cloth onto his lap. “Makes it easier for me to believe, anyway. Know you don’t have that same issue, though,” John grouses under his breath and begins pulling his union suit over his legs and hips. He stops to suck at his teeth. “Shit, I forgot. I’m not allowed any a’ the same privileges as you.”

Arthur tosses the handkerchief towards a dusty corner of the room and reaches for his own clothes as he stands. The second his bare feet hit the cold boards of the floor, his skin breaks out in gooseflesh. He rushes to throw some clothes on, though his risin’ temper will likely heat him well soon enough. “What are you talkin’ about? That ain’t fair. John, I told you,” He takes a deep breath and inches closer to John. “I told you that if somethin’ better found you, or you wanted to find _it,_ then that was fine. _More than fine.”_

Taking his own meaningful step forward, John glares at him. “That’s all you ever got as a solution. To stop.” 

“Solution? This ain’t a normal problem we can go about fixin’ by normal means. You think _I’m_ enjoying this? Think this has been– fun for _me?”_

“Well, nobody’s houndin’ you about shit day in, day out. Came back here with a decent take after that robbery me an’ Javier just done. What do I get? A goddamn pat on the back from Dutch and you an’ Abigail tellin’ me how I shouldn’t be riskin’ my neck for such little money while we’re up here. And you don’t have other people giving you funny looks because they think you should be with a certain other someone in camp, instead of celebrating a job well done with yourself and a bottle. I got _two_ goddamn lies, I’m living, Arthur! Or did you forget?” John’s voice almost raises past a seething whisper.

“I ain’t twistin’ your arm to do all this– this sneaking around horseshit. If you’re tired of this, John... then that’s your call to make on what to do about it. You don’t wanna be with Abigail? That’s just fine, too. About sick and tired of hearin’ you two mouth off at one another, anyway. Shit, whole camp is! That’s probably part of why everyone just wants the two a’ you to get your shit together. But I am _not_ the one stopping you from findin’ yourself any other decent woman to have on your arm. To marry, even. So don’t you fucking puff your chest out at me, boy, when I told you from the _start_ this weren’t no smart idea.”

“I remember what you said, yeah. Damn near every word. You won't ever let me forget. Too cowardly and too goddamn nice about sayin’ what you really wanted, was how I figured it then. Didn’t really think you meant or believed a word of it yourself, though.” John’s nostrils flare. Arthur glances down and sees the way he is wringing his hands tightly around his bunched up coat. 

Maybe this would be best. Arthur is used to bein’ left, he can manage. If John smartens up, he could do someone else fine. Follow his own lead for once, instead a’ everyone else's. Arthur says nothing of it. Turns away from John’s angry stare made more unwelcoming by the flickering shadows of candlelight. 

As Arthur finishes dressing, John speaks up again. “I'll just… Yeah, I'll get outta your hair before that guilty conscience of yours starts makin’ you sulk real bad. ‘Cause only you get permission for that, right? Nobody’ll notice a thing if Arthur Morgan stays off by himself, quiet and prickly. That there’s _normal._ And I know how much you like to keep things that way, so I won’t stop you anymore. Won’t fuck up that perfectly ‘normal’ life you keep on fully livin’.”

John nods with finality and makes his way for the window, throwing his coat on. Freezing air floods forward as John raises the window open wide. Arthur rushes to close it before John can even peek his head out. He recieves a deeply offended scowl as a reward.

Arthur takes a wavering breath and places his hands on John’s shoulders, almost pressing him against the cold glass panes. “Just tell me what you want. Tell me what I am supposed to do here, John. ‘Cause I am _just_ as lost as you.”

Dropping his head, John murmurs, almost too quiet, “Wish I knew.” The night casts John in deep, cool blues. Ironic, considering the feverish ire still radiating offa him. John straightens and carefully clutches onto Arthur’s arms. “I’ll do what you say– if… if somethin’ comes around.” Even as he says it, Arthur can tell John don’t like the taste of yet another lie in his mouth. “But you said it’s my choice.”

“That’s right.” Arthur realises he’s massaging his thumbs into the muscle of John’s shoulders. A gesture to perhaps calm and settle them both.

“So if– if I got a chance to be choosy, I’m choosing _you,_ you bastard.” Even though John still looks like he might want to take a swing at him, John brings a gentle hand to Arthur’s face, pulls him in as their bodies automatically drift closer.

“Okay. All right,” Arthur whispers in agreement as their lips brush. He kisses John slow and easy. 

John so deftly beats Arthur into submission without even having to raise a fist. It has always been like this when it comes to true matters of the heart for 'im, Arthur supposes. Didn’t matter if it were Mary or John, it was the same. Arthur had turned into an almighty fool for those two, then and now, ready to lie down and die for either one of ‘em if it comes down to it. Or cast away most things in life, but never enough. It is just his way. Love’s goddamn whipping boy.

* * *

Arthur wakes with a start, to sounds of hollering, women's terrified shrieks. Gunfire is what gets him swiftly out of bed though, stuffing his feet into his boots with his bleary eyes tracking the room wildly.

He throws on his hat and grabs his coat and gunbelt, immediately unholstering one of his revolvers. Checks the cylinder– fully loaded, good. He finds his bandolier just in case. In quiet steps, Arthur goes to the window, but all he can see from this vantage point is the orange reflection of fire across the thin blanket of snow. It’s coming from somewhere around the other side of the house. He shrugs on his coat and moves to the door, cracking it open careful as the old, creaky hinges will allow him.

The abandoned homestead is just as it always is– ramshackled, besides some minor tidying done upon their initial arrival. Hosea’s bedroll is empty and Arthur spies the front door ajar. The sounds of gunfighting continue to grow. He passes Dutch’s room, but pauses to try the door. Unlatched. Upon opening it, a heavy book narrowly misses his head as Arthur ducks out the way of Molly O’Shea’s surprisingly mean aim.

“Leave me be, you bastards!!” she screeches. Arthur pushes open the door to the pitch-black room. By the widening cone of lantern light cast in from the main room behind him, Arthur sees Molly cowered in the corner by the foot of the bed, a large knife held in both shaking hands. The way the once-tamed curls of her red hair fall around her neck and shoulders reminds Arthur of a lion’s mane set ablaze. But there ain’t no fierceness in her eyes, only sheer terror.

 _“Whoa, whoa,_ it’s Arthur! Molly, _it’s me.”_

Molly’s shoulders sag forward in grand relief when Arthur steps further into the room. “Oh God, Arthur, get me the hell out of here! Where is Dutch? He said he– he said he’d be back for me.” Molly starts getting up in a panic, probably wantin’ Arthur to escort ‘er outta here, but he stops her with placating hands.

He keeps his voice low, hopin’ she will follow suit. “Was about to ask you the same thing– where Dutch went, and Hosea. What in God’s name is goin’ on?”

“That... bloody _gang_ that you’s are always fighting with! There was a fire, we heard the horses– Dutch went storming out of here like a demon, with Mister Matthews, not long ago. Asked me to–”

Arthur feels his blood boil at the same time a cold shard of fear stabs into his heart. That is all he needs to know. “O’Driscoll’s? Yes or no?”

Molly scowls up at him, begins pulling herself up off the floor with a hand braced on the bed. “Wh– _Yes!_ Where are you–?

“Shit…” Turning on his heel with a warring mixture of reluctance and blood-thirsty anger, Arthur orders over his shoulder, “Look, I hate to do this to you, Miss O’Shea, but you gotta stay right here. Stay safe, and _stay put._ And latch that damn door behind me! Don’t you open it for anyone that ain’t one of us!”

He slams the door shut behind him, hearing the rise of what is definitely Miss O’Shea’s muffled cursing of his name.

Outside, Arthur ain’t got time to think or process his surroundings before he is shootin’ down men in every direction. He only watches for green vests and neckerchiefs amongst the men of his own gang ducking in and out of cover. The decrepit barn is nothing but a giant mass of flames now. Heart lurching, Arthur moves to where he hears familiar voices shouting over the chaos. An O’Driscoll rounds the smoldering remains of a pole barn out towards his left, firing a shot that misses by a mile. With a quick hand extending from his hip in a flash, Arthur drops the man like the sorry sack of shit he is. Smoke looms above, flushing through the tops of the trees, makin’ a suffocating grey canopy. There is no room to feel the cold of the night any longer. Fire illuminates the entire camp in blazes of orange as if the sun fell to the earth right here.

Dutch is shoutin’ out orders from somewhere he cannot waste time tryin’ to figure out. A modicum of ease encases Arthur’s nerves when he spies young Lenny hunkered down behind a wagon. He’s firing off shots towards a dark line of trees with a rifle propped on his shoulder. The kid practically hoots and hollers every time he seemingly hits his mark. Arthur dashes towards him. Lenny’s face lights right up when Arthur is soon crouched a few feet beside him, revolvers at the ready, fingers on the triggers.

_“The fuck happened?”_

Lenny only spares him a glance before he is peeking out from behind their cover to shoot again, this time towards the middle of camp. “Well, good to see you too, Arthur! Was worried when I didn’t see you come out with Dutch and Hosea!”

“Left Molly in there,” Arthur yells, pivoting out of cover to put two bullets – one from each gun – into a green vest. “Weren’t bringin’ her out in– _this_ not knowin’ what the hell we was walking out to!”

“Damn. Yeah, Colm’s boys got the drop on us good. Like a goddamn planned ambush, s’what I think!”

Arthur shakes his head, then thunks it against the wood of the wagon as he looks up at the billowing smoke growing in mass. “Jesus. How many are there, any idea? An’ who was on watch?” Arthur’s mind is spinning with his own bewilderment of their situation. Askin’ questions that are better left as rhetorical. But Lenny tries answering ‘im anyhow.

“Don’t know! Those sons a’ bitches just kept on comin’! Seems like their slowin’ down, though. Hosea went for the women, to take ‘em to the horses, I think. But before that, I heard him and Dutch yelling somethin’ about torches bein’ thrown into the camp. Meceita was on watch. Micah, too.” Lenny turns to Arthur with a sombre look then. “Don’t think Meceita made it.” Damn. Man was as no good as they come, but Arthur trusted him miles more than that weasley Micah feller, despite the both of ‘em not being with the gang for long at all. Damn shame.

“Listen close,” Arthur places a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I need you to go to the house, to Miss O’Shea when it’s _safe enough._ Get her out through a window at the back and stay hidden until it’s _clear,_ or you get ‘her out of here completely and any one of the other women if you can grab a couple horses, you got it? You’re one a’ the more clever men of this buncha degenerates, so I trust you’ll come up with something. I’m gonna go see if I can find Dutch.”

With a single nod and a curl of his lips, Lenny clasps Arthur’s arm. “Of course, Arthur. You got my word.”

Before Arthur heads around the wagon, into God knows what, he gives Lenny a strong pat on the back. “Don’t need yer word– I know you’ll do it.”

He picks his way through the camp, followin’ the deafening cries of the horses. He knows Boadicea’ll be just fine, though. Arthur thinks he sees Charles and Hosea wrangling scared mounts on the outskirts. Williamson and Dutch are scrambling to douse fires around Pearson's supply wagon with pails of water from the nearby horse trough. Jack is screamin’ and cryin’ from somewhere ahead. That single sound alone pushes Arthur harder. He makes a run for that direction, but someone grabs his arm, pulling him up short with an almost-violent jerk.

One revolver cocked, Arthur whips around, only to point his gun straight at John's heart.

“Arthur, Jesus Christ!” John gasps, pushing the barrel away.

The truest part of Arthur wants to embrace John, knowin’ he is actually safe. This ain’t the time or place to be that kinda honest, though. Arthur wrenches his arm free from John’s tight grasp. “Where are Abigail and Jack? They get clear of the camp yet?”

John’s mouth moves silently, brows pinching in confusion. “I– I don’t–” Suddenly, he pulls Arthur to the side as a gunshot rings out. Not soon enough, though. A bullet grazes Arthur's ribs. He stumbles to the ground, watching John put down an O’Driscoll Boy with more than enough bullets, left hand slamming down on the hammer of his revolver in rapid succession until the last chamber empties. He turns back to help Arthur stand, eyes goin’ wide when he sees Arthur gripping the left side of his ribcage. Blood drips steadily between his fingertips, warm and slick. Arthur rises to his feet with some help from John and staggers forward against him a little. Red droplets dot the dirty slush at their feet.

“Shit, that fucker got you?!”

 _“I’m fine,_ John.” Pain sears through Arthur’s torso like a goddamn brand. He presses his hand down harder, clenches his teeth through his words. “You find Abigail and your boy, and you get them the hell out of here! _Go now._ Said I’m fine, goddamnit, so don’t make me tell you twice.”

You’d think John couldn’t feel the heat of the flames lapping ‘cross their encampment the way he continues hemmin’ and hawin’ in front of Arthur. “But you’re hit!” 

Arthur stares him down with a grave expression. “Be. _Something.”_

“Shit. _Shit!”_ John stomps and shakes his head like the grown brat he still is. Despite his misgivings about leaving Arthur’s side, he starts pulling bullets from his gun belt to reload, anyway. John turns away from Arthur, sneers over his shoulder, “You’re lucky I– Goddamnit, _nevermind...”_ Before Arthur can think to ask after what he means, John runs off towards the undamaged tents, hoarse voice calling into the haze of smoke for Abigail.

Despite the fact that Hell had rained down on them swiftly in its blistering onslaught, it reached a petering finale before Arthur even had time to do much vengeful killin’, himself. Everything around them now feels too strangely quiet and too grim. The latter being a given, of course.

The last of the uninvited vermin falls far ahead of the silent shower of ash currently cascading down around their shoulders. Arthur sits on a crate with his shirt and union suit peeled down to his waist and tries not to shiver as Miss Grimshaw scolds him for the fiftieth time about how she’ll _give him an uglier scar than he’s already gonna get if he don’t hold still and quit squirmin’ like a whole bucket full a’ eels._ While she sutures his side with quick yet freezin’ hands, Arthur listens attentively to the words and ideas Dutch thinks will pull them out of the newest pit of quicksand they’ve fallen into. Wonders if Dutch’s mind is on his late, beloved Annabelle or the woman tucked tight beneath his barely offered wing when his rousin’ speech briefly devolves into a venomous soliloquy spit in Colm O’Driscoll’s name, and all that he does and does not stand for.

Arthur can’t decide if the look of disgust on Molly’s soot-and-tear-stained face is meant more for Dutch’s negligence of her tonight or the horse blanket wrapped ‘round her shoulders.

“Well we can’t start a damn war, Dutch!” Hosea’s voice is broken and pleading.

“A war? No. _No._ I– _we_ do not seek a _war_ between Colm and his boys. For we are _humane men,_ are we not?!” Arthur's mind argues that point in silence because his tongue doesn't dare speak against Dutch, especially not when they'd been so beaten down as they are. “Now, we may not be pillars of everything that is pure and good, I will never deny that. But that does not mean we do our work without a code. One that will point us like a sure compass, furthering us to the freedom we all seek! Colm… he and his ‘men’ have shown they abide by no morals! _No_ code of- of decency! That type of cruelty is the worst kind of shackle to be bound by, I tell you, my friends. That will _never_ be us.” Everyone nods vehemently, some of the men verbally agreein’ with loud jeers for the O’Driscolls and any who would cross them.

Dutch calms his crowd by holding up one hand, a simple bid for silence. He then opens his arms, gestures widely to the dead men strewn about. The ones who hadn’t burned had their pockets turned out and guns emptied of their ammunition. “The proof lies in every fallen soul sprawled around our feet. But if you stick with– We just need to keep sticking together, to lean on _each other._ There is no storm we cannot weather so long as we _stay together, folks!_ Now, we lost one of our own, one of our newest – Ryan Meceita – tonight, but these past several months, we have also gained those of you before me, who will and _have_ strengthened this family! I ask, I _beg_ of you all… do not let the events of this night turn your faith astray. _Loyalty_ is what will see us through to the other side of any hellfire lit in our path. Do not be dissuaded. For a phoenix always rises out from the ashes. And we will _be_ that phoenix, my friends. I assure you... You’ll see.”

Finished with his speech, Dutch walks off, and in a way, strands Molly yet again. Hosea follows. Their hushed argument is just barely heard by Arthur. People stay outta their way, but Arthur has half a mind to trail them, eavesdrop and find out the nature of his fathers’ current disagreement. There are more pressin’ matters to be dealing with, however, so he minds his business.

Helpin’ everyone else with bigger chores requiring heavy lifting ends up making Arthur feel moderately useless. Instead, he busies himself with a new task he knows he can handle all right. Holding his side gingerly, Arthur picks through remains of what personal effects he had in the ranch house. He just wants to be quick about it, as they must cut what losses they got and get along, anyhow. They need to restock their food supply sooner rather than later. Charles Smith, who Arthur still finds quite the intriguing enigma at this point in time, helps him shuffle through the debris of what used to be his tiny room such a very short while ago. Arthur and his pride had told him he didn’t really require the help, but Charles had taken one look at 'im and silently disagreed. And here they are, he guesses. Though he don’t want to admit to it, Arthur is thankful.

The fire hadn’t eaten through the old house too badly, but it did enough. For the most part, they’d all learned to live lean long ago – some by choice, but most not havin’ one – so this is just an aggravating inconvenience at the worst. Dutch found their stash of money and valuables, unharmed in their square metal box beneath the floorboards of his and Miss O’Shea’s room, so all is well, in Dutch’s eyes.

Charles hands Arthur something small and cylindrical, black. As soon as the weight of it hits his palm, Arthur knows what it is. He rubs the blackened glass jar against his coat in an attempt to clean it. In his lantern light, streaks of dark ash reveal the wilted, once bright red flower held within. Charles gives him a curious glance.

“Reminds me of someone. My uh, my mother,” Arthur says as he fits the small jar into his coat pocket. He doesn't know why he had just felt comfortable admitting that little piece of himself aloud to someone who is still mostly a stranger to him. Charles goes back to looking through the charred debris with careful hands.

“I'm glad it wasn't destroyed then.”

Arthur shrugs, even though Charles doesn’t see it. “Could always pick another, if we ever venture towards Nevada again, or California. Don’t know how likely that’s gonna be, though. I don’t know… maybe it’s a little silly– grown man hangin’ on to somethin’ like this.”

“It isn’t. Everyone is entitled to mourn in their own ways if it brings no harm to others.” Charles frowns over at him, but his voice is calm and assuring in the quiet of the burnt-out ranch house. Bein’ half-Indian and all, Arthur guesses Charles must know a thing or two about respect for the dead, and what others might have to say about how those personal respects is paid.

The small cot is mostly gone, and Arthur’s heart sinks, for he always kept his satchel under there at night, just in reach. He kneels in front of the small pile of ash and wood. The canvas that was once stretched out in the frame is burned away, along with the woolen blanket. “She’s been gone... most my life now,” Arthur informs Charles.

Offering Arthur a small, barely-there smile, Charles stands and moves towards the door. He leans back to look out of the room for a moment, then tells Arthur, “And remembrance has no timetable to follow, Arthur. It’s important to you. That’s all that matters. It never has to mean something to someone else. It’s not necessary for anyone else to understand. That goes for anything you feel.” 

Arthur doesn’t know if they are still discussing death or a different kinda grief.

Charles makes to leave, but pausing in the doorway, Charles adds, “I’m going to see Dutch and Hosea about scouting ahead, keep an eye out for game, maybe a safe place to lie low while we get our bearings and some rest before travelling further on.”

“Well, I reckon we’re definitely gonna need it.” Arthur chooses not to comment on what else Charles mentioned. “Most of the canned provisions are cooked to dogshit. Not real sure how many of us are going to find decent enough sleep before daylight after this.” Arthur finds his satchel, leather curled and black at the edges; the whole front of it a jagged mouth spread to reveal its contents. Mostly herbs that sure as shit ain’t salvageable, some dried meats. A ruined billfold. He is a little sorry over that. But these are replaceable things.

Arthur brushes away some more ash. It’s mixed with little pieces of goddamn tanned leather and paper. Paper that used to contain words held only in his heart and mind. Thoughts he should not have; accounts of their adventures – or sometimes _misadventures –_ the last couple years; drawings and unfinished sketches made with a quick hand by campfire light and song. Drawings of John.

 _“Goddamnit,”_ he says under his breath.

“All right?”

He looks over his shoulder to Charles. “Hm? Oh, just uh, more sentimental nonsense, is all. Should probably take this as a sign, if I were smart. You go on ahead, though. Think I got the rest of this. ...Thank you, Charles.”

“It was no problem. Just watch those fresh stitches, of yours, yeah? And maybe… think on what I said.”

Think on what he said. That is about the last thing Arthur wants to do, besides this, right now.

Flicking through destroyed pages, Arthur feels an unfamiliar sorrow. The likes of which he cannot pinpoint the exact source, it is so new. One journal, completely filled, is almost entirely burned. The other, more recent one, ain't much better. Never one to consider himself materialistic, Arthur is a little ashamed to be so upset over a couple a’ dumb journals. He flips to certain sketches – well, hopes they are there, anyway – approximating dates by their location in his journal. The drawing he did of John smiling while he saddled up Lady with the new monogrammed tack Arthur’d bought him for his twenty-fifth birthday is ruined. Only thing left of it is the mane of that stupid nag and one of John’s arms against the ornately tooled saddle, right near his embossed initials.

He does however, find a barely burnt page with a sketch of Copper done not long before he passed. The spoiled mutt hunkered down over a large salmon he stole right off Pearson’s butcher table. He misses that damn dog. Smiling, Arthur quickly tears out the page, folds it up, and shoves it into his pocket next to the jarred flower.

A sudden, idiotic desire to see John takes him. Maybe it is that dreaded sentimentality of his rearing its vicious head again, or just bein’ glad they’re both alive, not lost to one another like these lines on a page. Needs the real, tangible comfort of it. They hadn’t got a chance to speak since they’d briefly run into one another in the middle of the shootout. Arthur knows John’s eyes were on ‘im while Grimshaw was stitchin’ him up, though. John never did have a talent for subtlety. There ain’t much left he can do here, so Arthur gathers what belongings he can, anything worth hanging onto, and leaves the house to find John.

Across the remnants of camp, John is chattin’ with Sean, laughing with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Just carrying on like Abigail and Jack ain’t sittin’ but six feet away from him, shivering by a weak bonfire. Tilly, bless her, has Jack bundled up in a blanket and seated on her lap while Abigail seems to be trying to console her son’s fears with lighthearted words and her best impression of a calm demeanour. He wants to wipe that grin right off John's face. Arthur is unsure if he is more pissed off that John ain't bein’ fatherly – unconcerned with his “family's” well-being now that shit's died down – or if that selfishness is causing Arthur distress that John ain't playing his part so well. Or perhaps he is merely conflating the two.

Arthur takes notice of Tilly watching his hurried approach, her eyes flicking to John every few seconds. But it's Javier that stops Arthur in his tracks.

“Hey, whoa now. Don't go raggin’ on him, huh?” Javier holds his hands up when Arthur tries side-stepping around him.

Arthur sighs through his nose. He ain't got time for this. “What makes you so sure that's what I'm aiming to do?”

“Ah, you got that… glint in your eye. That fiery look when you wanna tear him down, I see it all the time, _compadre._ Just… leave it for now. Whatever it is. We're all on edge, Morgan. Tired, scared. And he did good.” Javier nods back towards Abigail and Jack. “John rode them both right out of here, kept 'em safe 'til me, Davey, and Bill went looking for where some of the others got to after everything was over. C’mon, we got some more work to do before we hit the trail. How's that gunshot, by the way? Think you can manage?”

“S’fine… I'll live, it seems. Y’all are gonna have my old, ugly mug to look at for a little bit longer, I'm afraid.” That “fiery look” Javier mentioned is something Arthur must apparently watch himself with now. So long as people think Arthur always looks at John that way because he wants to throw him to the ground and beat some sense into ‘im, not ‘cause of other things, well… Arthur’s okay with that. He leaves his mixed up thoughts of John, for now.

By the time they get packed up and on the road, there are only a few hours before dawn. After several miles, they make a small, close camp out of what wagons they got left and Pearson prepares gamey meat from two skinny deer Hosea and Charles were able to bag. Some eat in miserable silence, some sleep while they can. They will be ridin’ on again by noon time, try to find any settlement they can restock at. Hopefully a decent paying fence, too. Dutch still seems optimistic somehow. Arthur feels like he needs a strong goddamn drink and a hot bath.

Sure, all but one of ‘em had made it out alive, but they’d still taken a major blow thanks to Colm’s boys. Assholes wounded the gang's pride more than any of 'em would say. Though from their amateurish gunfighting capabilities, Hosea and Arthur surmised Colm had sent some of his most disposable men to do the ambush job. They weren't sure if that made them all feel better or worse. At any rate, important supplies are ruined, along with morale. Warm clothes, medicine, food, all burnt to a cinder. An almighty mess that was left for them to pick through quick as they could– Lord knows how far the ruckus of all that shootin’ carried, and to whose ears. Some things had been salvageable, thankfully; everything far enough away from the large stable barn had remained mostly untouched by the fire, so not many personal effects had been lost. And to some, that was their whole world outside a’ the gang itself.

“This was a cheap shot, Dutch,” Arthur insists as he keeps in step with the man along the perimeter of their new makeshift camp. “It was done quick and easy. Maybe not efficiently since those morons all got themselves _killed,_ but that don’t change the fact that this leaves Colm’s more skilled men an opening to kick us while we’re down, easy as pie, if we stick around the area. Clearly they been trackin’ us for some time, or at least watchin’. Probably doubly so now. We gotta get gone, far West like we been talkin’ about. Collect what we can on the way.”

Dutch stops beside his large tent, which had been safe from the fire, packed away 'til now, of course. “And we will, in time. We are _strong,_ Arthur. We… have been through worse, and worse still at the hands of Colm O’Driscoll! Much _worse.”_ Dutch’s voice goes quiet at the end, a little watery. He claps a beringed hand on Arthur’s shoulder – a gesture that only reassures him ‘bout half the time now, though its familiarity is still mostly welcome – and looks on past him. Gaze instead set towards the bedraggled faces of their gang. Men and women preparing themselves, in any which way they can, to piece together the charred remains of their already blackened lives. 

“The O’Driscoll’s did not weaken us,” Dutch goes on, “so don’t you let anyone believe that. What we need to do son, is build upon that strength. Dig deep into the reserves of the faith that will see us along, as it always has. I know _I_ have not lost that kind of steadfast faith in what we do. You haven’t either, have you, Arthur?” He shifts a narrowed gaze onto Arthur, question turning into something else with the doubtful cock of an eyebrow.

“‘Course not, Dutch. I just… we got people dependin’ on us. Hell, Jack’s needing new–”

“That is _why,”_ Dutch cuts him off, voice more firm than before, hand gripping a little tighter on Arthur’s shoulder, “we must simply outsmart these... _pitiless simpletons._ Go where they would not dare to, unless they are truly stupider than they look, or Colm has hired more suicidal men than the poor lot that tangled with us tonight, of course.”

Arthur listens intently, tries to deduce what Dutch is hinting at, but feels his face awash in confusion anyway.

Dutch’s hand drops. A grin curls his mouth like he is already proud of whatever clever plan is about to be unwrapped from his tongue like a shiny gift to Arthur's gloom-ridden wariness. Arthur is feeling tense with sensations of dread and hopeful anticipation all at once.

“Son, the O’Driscolls are far from being refined gentlemen, and perhaps we aren't either, I know what you're thinking. But we must subvert their expectations of us! Venture where fools and scum the likes of them fear to tread, and maybe fools such as ourselves, too.” He chuckles. “When we were down in West Elizabeth…”

Before he can stop himself, Arthur sighs, not exactly likin’ the sound of this ill-advised idea one bit. Backtracking? With the state they are in, that almost seems worse than runnin’ further off into the mountains with their tails tucked between their legs.

“Now you listen to me, Arthur. Listen. _To me._ There was nary a hint of Colm’s gang doing business down towards Blackwater while we were in the area. The… principles of law I am sure being too stifling for them, as it was for us. Not even a trace of green approaching Thieves’ Landing, as I recall.”

Arthur shifts in place, kicks the toe of his boot into the wet snow. “That was then. It’s been a couple years, at least, since we was there. Who the hell knows how many camps of men Colm’s got set up ‘cross the country now. You remember my run-in with a few of ‘em, Dutch, just north of the border of West Elizabeth when I was lookin’ for– for John, when he was gone.”

With a dismissive brush of his hand, Dutch answers Arthur's concerns. “And  _ you _ – a single, more than capable man – came out of that just fine, did you not? Maybe Colm is gettin’ desperate.  _ Sloppy.  _ One can only hope. And all right, so let’s say– let’s say the O’Driscoll Boys  _ have  _ settled down there, hm? Do you really think they would start up something with us so close to an expanding town such as Blackwater? By now, I am sure the presence of law enforcement has only increased to accommodate such a bustling city.”

“You thinkin’ about putting us right outside that town or somethin’?” That earns him a satisfied smirk. As if Arthur is finally gettin’ on the right track, or at least the same one as him. Doesn’t really matter if it leads off a sheer cliffside. Dutch always did like the strange idea of hidin’ in plain sight. Arthur leans in closer. “Dutch, what did Blackwater really bring us, though? What did goin’ down _south_ get us? Just bigger settlements and bigger headaches, I reckon. We start poking around places like that without bein’ too careful, the law’ll sniff us out in no time, forget the O'Driscolls.”

“Ah,” Dutch wags his finger in Arthur’s face. “That is simply because we did not _think bigger,_ Arthur. A larger city requires ideas to match in scale! Which we did not have last we were there,” he says dryly. “This time though, I am inclined to believe our _return_ shall be more substantial all around. So long as we are diligent and alert, knowing which fruitful ground to lay our ears upon, and where not to stick our damn noses. Are you with me on this? Hosea is on board. But Arthur, my boy, I need to know you are _with me_ still”

Arthur scratches his jaw. “Bigger ideas, huh?” Shit, curiosity is egging him on more than anything now. “Sure. And I’m with you all the way, Dutch. We’re gonna be all right.”

But what was that sayin’ they had about cats with a penchant for curiosity?

Later on, he finds John alone, taking a break before his turn for watch. He is crouched in front of a lantern while trying to roll a cigarette on a book balanced precariously on his thigh. Arthur waits until he is licking the rolling paper closed, then saunters up to him, intent hopefully clear to John, but not any others right now. He keeps his voice low and his tone deathly serious as he demands that John take a walk with him. There is genuine worry in John’s eyes. It’s got Arthur hiding a chuckle behind a cough.

They trudge far enough away that there's a chance they might be heard, but certainly not seen. John looks pitifully vexed as the bottoms of his jeans continue soaking up damp from the snow their boots are cutting dashed paths into. Arthur stops walking and picks out a random tree. Goes over to lean back against it, a pensive, judgemental stare locked on John all the while. John paces clumsily for several seconds, gives up, and rounds his simmering agitation on Arthur. Exactly what Arthur was waitin’ on.

“I did what you asked! Got both Abigail and Jack out safe, and kept ‘em alive, didn’t I? I fuckin’ saved _you,_ Morgan! The hell more do you want?”

Arthur don’t know if this is a part of their act or not. Regardless, he feeds into the scene easily enough. “Shouldn’t _have_ to tell you to keep your own goddamn family safe, for one. And two–” He snatches John by his coat and pulls him into a kiss. John fumbles at first before melting into it, clinging to Arthur desperately. When they part, Arthur indulges himself for a moment, nuzzling his cold nose against John’s. “Ain’t too sure when I’ll be able to do that again once we get movin’... you arrogant bastard.”

“...Yeah.” John nods, a little breathless. “You uh… you okay?” He runs a light touch under Arthur’s open coat. Fingers ghosting over the unbandaged gunshot wound hidden beneath his flannel.

“Told you I’d be fine, didn’t I? It’s nothing. Don’t need you mother-henning _me.”_

John swallows audibly. “Right, sorry. I just– y’know, shut up and allow me some worry, would you? Christ, it wouldn’t kill ya or anything.” Arthur laughs and presses a hard kiss to John’s jaw, and John promptly shoves him away in disgust. Which only makes Arthur feel like laughin’ harder at the disgruntled look on his stupid, handsome face. “So… down to Blackwater again, huh?” John wonders aloud. “What d’you make of that?”

Pulling John closer by the waist, with him not puttin’ up a fuss this time, Arthur scoffs into John’s hair. He admits against his ear, “I think we are all tremendous fools, John. Just a matter of time before we find out whether you and I are the biggest ones or not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **"Fun" facts:** The character who uh, died "off-screen," Ryan Meceita, didn't have a name for while when I wrote this chapter. At the last minute, during revisions, I decided to add yet another nod (there are going to be a few) to my favourite spaghetti westerns by naming him after both main characters from _Death Rides a Horse_ / _Da Uomo a Uomo_.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the last line in Sylvia Plath's "Firesong."
> 
> I am so sorry for the delay, guys. Of course, everything for everyone is a shit-show right now. And today, after being in hospice care, my grandfather passed away. I still decided to finish editing and post this chapter as a thanks to you guys. Plus, I know a lot of us are getting on through this mess by occupying our minds through reading. My readers have always been some of the wonderful little lights in my life, and I need some positivity to cling to right now. Also, I just wanted to say that the RDR/RDR2 fandom is incredibly gracious and lovely, I've been blown away by what I've seen in the last several months (and I am only too aware that every fandom has its dark corners, but still) I've lurked around, even before starting up this story. Be safe, please **keep being excellent to each other** , and seek out and hold onto any little bit of light you have in your own lives♥


	7. He Didn't Take the Time to Lie (1899)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "calm" before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I was going to "censor" myself a bit in this chapter. But, I am not going to apologise for the amount of naughty scenes in this story (or yet to come), let alone having three in a goddamn row! lmao  
> Enjoy?

_Well it's cold and it's quiet  
_ _And cobblestone cold in here  
_ _Fucking for fear of not wanting  
_ _To fear again  
_ _Lonely is all we are  
_ _Lovely so far  
_ _But my heart's still a marble  
_ _In an empty jelly jar  
_

 _Someday suppose that my  
_ _Curious nervousness  
_ _Spills into prescience  
_ _Clairvoyant consciousness  
_ _I will be calmer than cream  
_ _Making maps out of your dreams_

\- TV on the Radio, "Young Liars"

* * *

The deep green wallpaper makes the place feel somethin’ like a faceted emerald held up to the sunlight and glowing. A shimmering floral pattern scrolls up the walls in gold, which appears warmed to the touch by the fireplace-flicker, just as John’s skin surely is from the welcome heat of the rented room. A false luxury.

John rolls over onto his stomach, bunching a pillow beneath his chest. “So what’s the first thing you're gonna draw, huh?” he asks. White smoke leaves his mouth to rise towards the ceiling. He don’t need to know that Arthur’d already sketched out some figure drawings of Boadicea and Lady soon after John had given him the new journal as a late birthday gift the other day. Now, the first few pages are filled with the ever-changing silhouette of the expanding town of Blackwater. A couple shopfronts and buildings here and there, with scaffolding climbing like vines along their unfinished sides. With arms crossed over the pillow, John lays his head down atop them. The picture of comfort. Arthur is going to beat the shit out of him if he passes out and that cigarette falls out his mouth and onto the bed. They don’t need no goddamn arson charge before a big job.

“Mm, I dunno... Sure as hell ain’t gonna sully fresh pages with somethin’ as grotesque as yourself anytime soon, though.” Arthur motions with pencil in hand, to John’s prone form laid out on the bed. Naked body still halfway modest by the way the sheet conceals his lower half just up to his hips. Although, one bent, bare knee peaks out from beneath the covers, along with a sliver of hairy thigh. Arthur finds himself greatly tempted to get up out of his chair, walk over, and tug that damned sheet down an inch or two further. For his private drawing, Arthur decides against including the put-upon offence currently marring John’s features.

“Why don’t you let me draw _you_ Mister _Artist.”_ John takes a drag off his cigarette and beckons for Arthur’s journal. The gesture... goes easily ignored. “Can’t be too much harder than learnin’ to write. Just different ways of making different lines. Oh, c’mon, I bought you the damn thing, anyway.”

Arthur briefly stops pencilling in John’s hair (he’d particularly liked the way a few damp tendrils were falling over his right eye before he had to go on yappin’ and moving around) to write beneath the drawing, _John in Blackwater. Was not as quiet and peaceful as he appears._ He looks up from the pages to eye John wryly. “Not exactly sure how this bein’ a gift is pertinent information. And you seen yer penmanship lately, Marston? Think Jack might write more legibly.”

“Funny. It ain’t even that bad, stop exaggerating. _Morgan._ Tell you what, you being _ungrateful_ is some real _pertinent_ information.” John’s cigarette is quickly put out in the remnants of his glass of whiskey on the bedside table.

“Nah, don’t think you got the... right aesthetic _appreciation_ to even draw a stick figure.” Another scowl is thrown Arthur’s way as he gets up and walks the short distance to the bed, joining John again. When John begins to roll over Arthur stops him with a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t. Hang on a minute,” he says gently and straddles John’s legs.

“Think I was appreciatin’ you _very_ aesthetically just fine a couple times this evening already.”

Using the end of his pencil, Arthur trails an invisible line down John’s spine with a featherlight touch. Enjoys the dance of amber light flashing across his pale skin from the flames in the nearby hearth. Arthur watches John shiver a little the lower the pencil goes, and he smiles, feeling a smug type of satisfaction. “No– No, I think you was workin’ on how to get us kicked out of this fine establishment, and maybe the town too. ‘Cause _you_ forgot how to mind personal space during a bath. When we wasn’t both supposed to _be_ in the same washroom to begin with, no less.” Arthur brushes his pencil down to the cleft of John’s ass, pulling the sheet back just enough. Just as he wanted. John had always been a rangy thing, but in the last couple years, Arthur began havin’ a real admiration for the way he’d started to fill out some. Body becomin’ more angular, despite the lean muscle. John lets out a choked off huff of air, squirming slightly, and Arthur sees his eyelids flutter closed for a couple seconds. He stops his teasing to finally finish off his drawing. Sketches quick lines and hatched shadows for the folds in the bedclothes around John’s body. “All right darlin’, you can turn over now.”

John does so with a lazy smirk. The base of his half-hard prick is visible where the sheet has inched down even further thanks to his movement. He reaches for Arthur’s hips and curls his fingers into the waist of his drawers, very slowly attempting to pull them down. “Awe, hey now, Blondie. I could draw all the important parts… since I know ‘em by heart. By touch.”

Arthur snaps his journal closed, pencil tucked into the pages. Tosses it to one corner of the large bed then stills John’s hands before they get too far in their wandering intent. Arthur goes on to grip both John’s wrists in a one-handed hold. Leans over him to just barely brush their lips together, teasing him once more. “The ‘important’ ones, huh? You’re a real goddamn rake, you know that?” John wriggles his hands free, no problem. But Arthur don’t really fight ‘im, either.

“Never heard a complaint out of you for it– only after.” John’s whiskey-soaked tongue darts out to wet Arthur’s bottom lip.

Adventurous hands continue their previous work, this time pluckin’ open the single button on the front of Arthur’s drawers. “They ain’t complaints, John.”

“Okay. Warnings, then.”

Thin fabric is easily pulled down Arthur’s hips and thighs. He manoeuvres his legs around until John has him bare. Looms directly over John, an eagerness risin’ inside him as he rests his weight upon his hands and knees. There is something about the electrical lighting that is too bright for Arthur’s tastes here. Too artificial for the moment. He reaches to turn off the wall sconces above the bed, plunging them into nothing but soft firelight. John gets a harsh grip on Arthur’s hips like he’s fighting against what he really wants to keep doing with those hands. Rough fingers give a last squeeze before John runs his hands up and down Arthur’s ribcage. There is a new scar there of course, one which John’s touch seems to hesitate over every time his fingers brush over the pale pink line of it. A calloused palm moves to the back of Arthur’s neck– John reeling him in slowly to press their mouths together.

“I’m tryin’, John. It ain’t ever gonna be any kind of perfect, but know I’m tryin’,” Arthur whispers against John’s lips. Drags his own down the faint stubble of John’s newly shaped goatee Arthur ain’t real sure he likes so far.

But John pulls back a bit. Grey eyes warmed by a hint of fire rove over Arthur’s face. John licks his chapped lips. “I look like I want perfect? Just… just be here. Present. I dunno what I’m sayin’. Christ...” John makes a sorry attempt at ducking his head away bashfully before he’s pulling Arthur down for another kiss, more fervour and meaning in it this time.

Things progress quickly from there. With John clawing pinkened tally marks down Arthur’s chest, grunting beautifully when their hips meet in a soft collision. John askin’ Arthur to move up the bed a bit, and John slinking down the mattress, never breaking eye contact the whole while. Down Arthur’s body, teeth catching a nipple, and biting gently at the flesh over Arthur’s stomach right before he reaches his clear destination. John coaxes Arthur’s hips down, arms wrapped around his thighs. And down John takes his cock; mouth stretched wide, lips slick. Arthur slides towards his throat as John lifts his head off the bed. Slow, slowly. Arthur breathes just the same. At least he thinks he does, as he don’t have much luck payin’ mind to anything but the look and feel of John’s mouth around him. His hands, aggressive then tender. There ain’t an inch of Arthur John don’t try touching that is within his reach. Arthur will never be able to get over how the hell John is so damn good at this. He braces his hands a little wider, dips his hips lower so John can lay back against the bed without straining. 

The crimson duvet pools and frames John’s shoulders with the clean contrast of stark white sheets, like blood flooding snow. It’s a goddamn alluring sight, is what it is. Arthur runs his fingers back through John’s hair. “Wish I could draw you just like this right now.” He thrusts a little shallower. “Put… _ah…_ put colour to it, too.”

John’s brows knit, eyes start rolling back just before he shuts them. A needy groan vibrates around Arthur’s length and the hot tongue pressing against him. One hand then disappears from the back of Arthur’s thigh. By the motion of John’s arm, Arthur’s imagination has no trouble supplying the image he cannot see from his current position. A breath filled with the lust he feels leaves his chest and he starts to find a rhythm that’s just this side of too much for John’s impressive gag reflex. He praises John with single, sometimes colourful, words that get straight to the point.

There’s a light knock at their door. John’s eyes open, twitch towards it. But he seems to agree with Arthur’s choice in ignorin’ it. Maybe some asshole that got ‘imself too drunk to recall what room was his. But the second cluster of knocks is much more insistent the next time. Arthur pulls completely away from John, who – with the exception of wiping the back of his hand across his mouth after snapping it shut – remains frozen in place.

“Oh, just hold your goddamn horses, partner! Jesus…” Arthur scrambles off the bed in an angry rush. Slips on his drawers and buttons them closed as he heads for the door. The loose fabric is still uncomfortably tight across his hard prick, which he tries to reposition and hide best he can. Hell, wishes he could simply will the evidence of his arousal away. Lest he give their unwelcome visitor an unfortunate eyeful. He hears John, in a quiet voice, askin’ after who it might be while he quickly covers his own indecency with the bedclothes.

Just as Arthur unlatches the door and reaches for the knob to put an answer to this irksome mystery, he hears the apologetic voice of Charles Smith on the other side of the dark wood.

“Arthur? Sorry if I woke you, but it’s... kind of important. I won’t–”

Arthur cracks open the door before his blood can freeze in his veins. And what a sure way to make a man go soft in half a second.

“–keep you,” Charles finishes, surprise at Arthur’s state of undress immediately evident in his mildly shocked expression.

Brushing his hair from his face, Arthur sighs and asks, “What is it that’s so important then?” Effects an exhausted sound to his voice like his sleep was indeed disturbed, despite it not bein’ too late in the evening. Charles is already lookin’ at him peculiar-like when Arthur shifts to block as much view into the room as he can. Utilising his size and an act of modesty he never really had in camp as cover for his possibly curious behaviour.

Charles raises an eyebrow at him, straightens up, like he can goddamn see right through this charade. See that Arthur is hiding– “So Dutch wants you back at camp by morning to go over the ferry job one more time, with everyone there together. Any chance you’ve seen John, by the way? No one seems to know where exactly he got off to.”

Arthur can practically feel John tensing up behind him. “No… No, I have not. Probably out drinkin’ himself more stupid somewhere if he ain’t been at camp. And what’s Dutch need me there for, anyway– if I got my own lead to follow with Hosea?”

“Don’t know.” Charles shrugs. “Just the messenger here, Arthur. Seemed fairly adamant about it, though.”

“Sure, probably a last-ditch effort– hopin’ he can convince me to join in his an’ Micah’s harebrained idea.”

Seeming to mull that over, Charles then asks him, just above a hush, “Think they’re right about the amount of money? That’s a helluva big take that I’m not sure half your men have been involved in before. No offence.”

This ain’t really a time Arthur would pick for discussin’ his opinions on such matters or past endeavours. But he can’t let Charles know that. Can’t show his hand and let his impatience shine through. At least, not the _real_ reason for it. “None taken. Have you?”

“Can’t say that I have. But then again, can’t say I’ve done a lot of the things that I’ve gotten up to since joining Dutch and the rest of you.” Charles laughs, deep and honest in his chest. And Arthur thinks this kinda man don’t rightly belong with the likes a’ them. A man whose character is so thoroughly guided by a type of truth none of them have likely ever possessed, or ever will again if they once had it at all.

“Yeahhh,” Arthur smiles, stretches his back, rolling his shoulders. “Think we curse just about every person who hangs ‘round us too long.”

“Maybe so. It’s been an interesting time, there’s no doubt about that. Well, Arthur,” Charles steps away, but he keeps watchin’ Arthur– until something changes. Until that gaze is set just below Arthur’s arm braced against the door frame. Only for a second, but Arthur notices. He fights the urge to turn and look– see what Charles mighta seen. “I best be going. Guess I’ll see you back at camp soon enough. Sorry again for waking you.” Looking directly into Arthur’s face again, Charles narrows his eyes. “And… if you _do_ see John, pass word to him for me, will you?”

 _Now_ Arthur smiles out of nervousness. Fumbles for what to say. Laughs. “I-I don’t think I’ll be running into ‘im, but sure, I’ll do that.”

“I wouldn’t be too certain about that. His horse is hitched outside the saloon, afterall. Saddle like his, not hard to mistake it for anyone else’s chestnut mare. Strange I didn’t see him downstairs, though. Not sure why he’d go out of his way to get a drink further out than Blackwater like you suggested. Think maybe he got another room here?”

From somewhere behind Arthur, the metallic click of a hammer being pulled back alerts them both. Arthur can’t help the instinctive turn of his body, just like he is sure Charles cannot help the way his hand is at his holster in an instant. John is up on his knees at the head of the bed, left hand grasping a pillow to cover himself, the right outstretched. Timeworn Cattleman pointed towards the doorway. Arthur immediately side-steps in between the two aimed guns, heart fit to burst, it’s beatin’ so damn fast.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doin’?!”

John flicks the barrel of his revolver to the side, a bid for Arthur to get out of the way. “I knew– I knew I should’ve hitched Lady someplace else. Shit! Arthur, just _move,_ damnit!”

“You gonna what– shoot him, then have us shoot our way outta here, too? You goddamn _fool!”_

“John,” Arthur looks over his shoulder, sees Charles holding his hands up – finger off the trigger of his sawed-off– taking slow steps back towards the railing. “Just... be calm. Not any need for this. I’m going to holster my gun, and I’m going to go. Right, Arthur?”

Arthur points his finger at John, since he don’t got no fuckin’ weapon of his own. “You drop that goddamn gun, right now. Marston, I swear…” Still, John’s arm does not waver. But his eyes, the way he breathes, and the slope of his shoulders– all wild and wound with panic. Rattled in a way Arthur cannot recall seein’ John in a very long time. “John, please. _Look at me._ C’mon.”

John lowers his arm, his whole body settling down. An absolute look of hurt and defeat changes his face as he looks away. If they were alone, Arthur would go to him. Ease whatever pain and possible confusion he’s feelin’.

“I’m gonna go out here now,” Arthur motions towards the door with his thumb, towards Charles. “And speak to Charles for a moment– just _a moment._ All right?”

“Yeah… _yeah,”_ John answers, weak and raspy. Takes a shuddering breath.

When the door slams behind Arthur, he pulls Charles to the side. “You need to go, and you need... to say nothin’.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. We may not know each other well, but you can trust me. Especially on this.”

Normally, Arthur would laugh in the face of most any man who said that to him. But he feels compelled to take Charles’s word. He slumps against the wall beside him, crosses his arms against the chill he feels. The night had cooled down rapidly compared to the sweltering, dry heat of the day. Somethin’ Arthur didn’t miss about bein’ down here. “Then why’d you have to go an’ saying _anything_ at all, huh?”

“Because I think you _need_ someone to know, Arthur.” Charles looks over at him, almost pitying.

“And what the hell's that supposed to mean? I ‘need’ someone to know... So we can get thrown in prison, hm? It seem like I want that? Th-this ain't what it...” The crowd below has quieted, patrons voices nothin’ more than a dull murmur. Arthur is aware of everything. Glasses thudding on tables and bar top. The thick smell of cigar smoke. He wonders how John is, havin’ been left alone so suddenly after this. John in their dim, empty room. “Oh, hellfire…” Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What is it you think it looks like? Look, I'm not much of a gambling man, but I'd be willing to bet any amount of money you're sick of hiding. John too. Just know that I won't go speaking a word of this, to anyone, because it is none of my business. And I'm sorry the both of you have to keep it a secret, or feel the need to. There is nothing _wrong_ with it… if no one's getting hurt, remember that. Nothing wrong with it. Love should be embraced as a gift, wherever it is found. Didn't grow up being told otherwise, myself. It’s a shame what beauty man can create faults in, what he ruins without truly knowing the reason why. Only because he is told, or taught.”

“Didn’t really go lookin’ for anything... Not so sure that’s what this is, anyway.”

Charles eyes him dubiously with the hint of a smirk. “Well, your lack of subtlety would say otherwise.”

Arthur stares, mouth slightly agape. Mind grasping for words that insist on eluding him. Charles pats him on the shoulder.

“Check on John, put some clothes on. As I said, I’ll see you when you get back.” He walks off, but Arthur calls after him before Charles rounds the corner. 

“Hey. You uh… you watch out for him. On the ferry. For me,” he asks sheepishly.

With a serious nod, Charles answers, “Of course. I’ll do what I can, Arthur.”

He trusts Charles, he does. Has a strange gut feeling he don’t get often with people, ‘specially ones in the gang. Not when it means anything good, anyway.

Back in the room, John is mostly dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed. At the last second, Arthur realises he has his journal in his lap. The door shuts and John tosses away both the journal and pencil back onto the bed. Quickly stands, guilty as all hell. It's too dark that Arthur was unable to see what pages he was opened to.

“You prying now? Get bored that fast?” He gestures to the bound leather book. 

“Was just curious about what you drew, is all. Since you’ve never let me look when it’s me.”

Arthur grabs the journal and shoves it into his satchel. “Mm, good reason for that.” He pauses, thinkin’ about lightening the mood. Ambles up to John. “Like what you saw, Marston? My hand do you justice?”

“I uh–” John flounders. Reaches for his glass of cigarette-steeped whiskey, which he only takes full note of right as Arthur is snatching it from his hand. He grabs the half-empty bottle instead. “I’ve got to get back to camp, and fuckin’ soon. Before Charles, if I’m able.”

“Yer half-drunk.” Arthur slams the glass back on the table. “Ain’t nowhere you're gettin’ fast, ‘cept maybe the ground when you fall off your horse at a full gallop.”

John takes a long pull from the bottle, hisses through his teeth at the burn. “I’ll manage. If I heard right, Dutch sent someone – Charles – to bring us back to camp because of the ferry job comin’ up, yeah? Ain't ‘cause he was worried, Arthur. Charles can't just go back and say everything's perfectly fine with us. Gotta show up, too. You stay in the city often enough that it ain’t gonna be strange if you don’t come in ‘til morning. But if– if they see us riding in together then? You left two days ago. I left when the sun was still high. _Today._ How’s that gonna look?” He shoves the whiskey bottle into a saddle bag. “Look, I know Charles is a decent man. But that don’t change the fact that what we– _this_ ain’t good and decent. And now he fuckin’ knows. _Someone. Knows.”_

“You’re startin’ to sound like me.”

“Well, I’m sure that suits you just fine.”

“It’s… it’s gonna be _all right._ Besides, you really think someone else is gonna take Charles’s word – sayin’ somethin’ like _that_ about the two a’ us – if he does say anything at all? When he ain’t been with us but half a year?” Arthur puts a hand to John’s waist, but is brushed off. “Come on, John. It’s our word against his.”

John gets the rest of his things together in a small rush. His shaving kit, trail-dirty clothes from when he first got into Blackwater, pocketwatch, smokes. “Yeah, and I’d like to believe that our word would carry more weight against most, but…”

“You’re bein’ paranoid. Charles ain’t gonna rat us out, if that's what you're worried about. Look, I talked to 'im, and–”

“How aren’t _you_ paranoid, Arthur? Of all the times.” John faces him, truly pissed off now. “You know what, it don’t matter... It’s gonna appear… like a strange coincidence, at most, if we ride in around the same time– we always said that for when we meet up. Always need a simple story to tell, right? So I’ll…” John shuts his mouth. A short, frustrated breath leaves his nose. “I’ll say I was on a supply run– for ammunitions or somethin’. Decided to stop by the saloon for a bath and a meal, then got carried away drinkin’ after. Saw you, but we argued. You went to bed. I started playin’ poker ‘til I lost, I don’t know. I’ll think of something if I get interrogated by Dutch or more nosey folk.”

“Ain't too far from the truth. Didn't exactly win big, neither.”

John shrugs. “Better than sayin’ I was with a woman all night.”

“Maybe you should.” It'd be more believable– too much drink, some gambling, whorin’. All the rest of 'em do it, so no one could really say shit if John used it as an excuse. They'd all rib him, sure. But they'd be distracted by bein’ happy for 'im too, while a few would grumble through their poorly hidden jealousies. Arthur honestly don’t think they’ll need any sort of story. Don’t think anyone will care to ask.

“Say it or do it?”

It's a clear challenge, the edge in John's voice. One Arthur does not back down from. “That's still your choice, John. Don't put that on me.”

John glares at him for a moment. Turns away with a bitter laugh and finishes dressing. “You're a fuckin’ asshole. Out-and-out _fuckin’_ asshole.”

“You say that like it's a revelation you just now had.” Arthur slips on his own shirt, and the second it's over his head, he is promptly grabbed by the face and pulled in for a kiss more consuming than he was prepared for. John’s tongue is insistent against Arthur’s. Teeth pinch hard on his bottom lip.

“Didn’t pry, didn’t read nothin’. Didn’t look at no drawing.” John lets go of Arthur – who is feelin' rather breathless – with a small shove at his chest. Rounding the bed, John reaches for his saddlebags, throws them over his shoulder and grabs his shabby hat from a chairback on his way to the door. The same chair where Arthur's hat is also hangin’… which would be in perfect view were someone standin’ outside the room as Charles had been.

Son of a bitch. That's what Charles had spied earlier. Eyes like a damn hawk.

“Then what were you–” But John is gone, door gently clicking shut behind him while the sharp jangle of his spurs sound out his leave. And Arthur is alone. In their dim, empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alas, my embarrassing obsession with John's back & shoulders has become Arthur's. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> So perhaps Arthur _is_ in fact, growing exhausted of all the hiding and lying. And just as John is learning to play into it all better, too.  
> Also, (and I have my many reasons for this) for this story I have been headcanon-ing John's birthday being in early September and Arthur's in mid-May, making them 26 and 37 currently.
> 
> Your continued feedback and support means more than you know, guys♡  
> Oh! And I am doing Camp NaNo for April with this story, so if anyone else is doing it and wants to be buddies, I am Poetica_ on there!


	8. Crepi il Lupo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Right away, just to be safe I suppose, I'll say there are warnings for non-graphic descriptions of blood in regards to injury/animal attack (John); mention of canonical animal death; and non-graphic animal death in regards to hunting. Also, the canon-typical violence/gang behaviour tag still holds true for this fic, so I'm not going to repeat it in the chapter warnings after this one unless the violence is rather graphic. I don't believe I'm forgetting anything, but I know everyone's opinions of things are different, so if you see something you think I should include in the chapter warning, let me know!
> 
> This month took a toll on my mental health & creative endeavours, and I really wanted to get this out before my birthday the other day, but that didn't happen lol. Admittedly, I struggled a lot with this chapter, even though I had a quarter of it written for months. I had to rewrite a decent portion because of that, too. It still doesn't feel "right," but I need to stop messing with it and move on! Apologies that it's a bit dour & dull; I just really love dialogue lol.
> 
> *Chapter title is an Italian idiom meaning literally, "may the wolf die," usually said in reply to "in bocca al lupo."

_The sun's comin' up over the hill  
Or maybe it's not, I can't even tell  
But there's a warmth on my face  
That isn't the blood  
And my tears are turnin'  
The snow into mud  
  
And I can't feel my left leg  
But I think it's still there  
Did I kill anybody?  
Hell, I never fight fair  
  
What state am I in?  
Am I still on the run?  
Has it really been so long since I've seen the sun?  
  
_\- Murder by Death, "Spring Break 1899"

* * *

If someone had asked Arthur a week or so ago, what things he associated with the colour red, he’d have said Mary’s favourite brooch or the bloom that his mother had so loved. Maybe the burning rage that takes him before a vicious brawl in a dusty, no-name town. The overly rouged lips and cheeks of the girls hanging ‘round men’s necks at saloons, or clouds reflected vividly across a lake at sunset. Now, though… red is all his mind is filled with when he thinks of _John_ , and of the days passed since the massive fuck up that was the ferry job in Blackwater. Red, the colour of loss and blood. The serpentine tongue of a fire’s lapping heat.

He can still perfectly imagine the way John’s dead weight felt, slumped over his shoulder as he cursed and groaned in agony. The way he’d gripped tight to the back of Arthur’s gun belt outta fear, while Arthur carried him and ran them ahead of the wolves. John’s pained whimpers when Arthur got him up on Javier’s horse. The sounds of those starving wolves, anxious to finish off their prey, hungry jaws snapping. Snarls and howls filling the air.

Arthur still has John’s blood smeared and soaked into the thick denim of his coat. His own too, colouring the tattered blue of his sleeve to the shades of wine and rust ‘round the half-assed bandage tied off over a bite mark he earned protectin’ John.

People have come and gone, asked and ordered Arthur to rest, or eat. Change his damn clothes. Hosea wantin’ to properly tend to his only physical wound. He’s eaten some, only on account of feelin’ like he ain’t got no place bein’ so visibly woeful or feeling sorry for ‘imself when the newly widowed woman – a Missus Sadie Adler – that they’d rescued the night prior, had lost her damn _husband._ Along with the life they’d built together; her whole livelihood gone. All in the span of what looked like a most harrowing three days, ‘cause of those _repulsive goddamned O’Driscolls._ ‘Course it has to be them hiding up here, too. Arthur made damn sure he put all of his weight into each punch when he’d beaten the piss outta one bastard that’d had the nerve to jump ‘im in the barn. Not before gettin’ dubious information about where Colm is supposedly hidin’ out and a plan for some train robbery they’re thinking ‘bout pulling.

So they’d taken the woman in, under the broken wing of the gang while they all mend their own. Was probably shock and terror what made Missus Adler numbly go along with it thus far. Once she recovers her wits, she will likely see just what a sorry sort they all are and be on her way. Arthur hopes she got family ain’t too far away that could maybe help her out eventually. Otherwise, the gang’ll keep her safe for now, even though they can’t much prove the worth of their auspices from the current state they’re in. Some dead, most freezing and bone-weary, half-starved. Jesus, Arthur hadn’t even bothered offerin’ to help find a spot to bury Davey Callander’s shot up body beneath the snow after the man was quietly announced dead by Abigail. He feels no guilt. Not for that, at least.

No, the guilt Arthur feels is for not being on that damn boat. For believing so much that his and Hosea’s separate, quieter plan to maybe pull one over on some crooks more stupid than them was a better one; leaving Dutch and the other fellers to carry out the large heist on the river. If he’d been there, then maybe his beloved Bo’ would still be alive, and sweet Jenny... entirely too young to have lost her life because of this horseshit. Then there was that poor woman Dutch had apparently killed for whatever reason Arthur still wasn’t real clear on… she’d maybe be alive, too. Hell, not that it would help John’s present situation – and certainly wasn’t the worst of his worries – but there was a chance, no matter how small, that he might not have got shot if Arthur were by his side. He is thankful though, so fucking thankful, that Charles made damn sure John got out of there alive with a bullet in only his arm.

No one knows if Sean and Mac are even alive. According to some who’d seen, Mac got shot while they was still in Blackwater, more than enough times that hopin’ he turns up breathing may rightly be a lost cause. And now they all got prices on their heads some ain't ever had before in their lives. A right goddamn mess.

But Arthur can’t keep wasting all his energy on should and should not haves. Even if he was with them, who’s to say he wouldn’t have wound up dead as well, with the plan still shot to shit? And bein’ there for the job wouldn’t have prevented John from deciding he’d volunteer himself to be one of the men to go scouting off ahead after they got well into Ambarino. Tryin’ to show how brave and valiant he was, no doubt. An idiot's pride and ego. Riding into the damn Grizzlies during a whiteout snowstorm, and getting himself half fuckin’ eaten by wolves… true hero of tales, Marston. Arthur found them temporary shelter in Colter, while John had found himself supper for the predators roaming this mountain.

Arthur leans forward in his creaky chair, rests his elbows on the old cot before him. John’s hand is frigid when Arthur takes it in his own. He sets to removing his fingerless gloves and presses John’s hand between his bare palms, warming his skin for a moment. They ain’t ever held hands as lovers, so the irony of the situation feels especially cruel to Arthur. “John…” he speaks into the ruin of the one-room house. Voice thin as gossamer. “Not sure– not sure if you can hear me, how drugged up the reverend got you, but I’m hopin’ you stay unconscious for now. ‘Cause you need rest and I got some things... I might need to say. If I am able. And if you don’t stay asleep, well... then you best keep yer mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you. Though, guess you never did. Don’t want you reopening that nasty scratch ‘cross your lips by waggin’ that jaw a’ yours, anyway. Especially since I gotta wait until you heal some before we can go back to... before I can–” Arthur inhales sharply, squeezes his eyes shut.

A surprising wave of emotion hits Arthur all at once, over something so stupid as wishin’ he could kiss John. Just as he’d wished to kiss him in relief, through the equally powerful urge to throttle him, when he and Javier had finally found John huddled up on that ledge. The kiss ain’t the point of the matter that’s tearin’ him up so much. It’s real damn close to the edges of something more. Swallowing his feelings feels like a cold stone hitting the pit of his stomach, and it is an embarrassing struggle to not cry, even though they’re alone for right now. It’s ridiculous, really. But Arthur does not want to let his emotions get the best of him. Not for now; he don’t got time to be this soft. He rests John’s knuckles against his lips. Allows his gaze to travel over John’s many injuries. A couple tears stubbornly refuse to stay put, falling over Arthur’s cheeks without his say so.

Jesus, but John looks like a goddamn war victim.

Every bandage covering him has bloomed with blood. Red, yellowing at the edges. Half his face is concealed, makin’ the idea of John’s facial wounds even grislier than they were when Arthur and Javier found him. A bandage on each arm– one from a wolf bite, the other just a change in dressing for the gunshot that’ll heal just fine. And Arthur knows there’s a thick amount of fabric strips wound around deep claw marks that lash across John’s right thigh, hidden from view beneath woolen blankets. John had passed out pretty soon after Arthur started stitchin’ him up there. From the pain or drugs, or both, he weren’t sure. It was right before Abigail had even finished putting his cheek back together. Think she and Reverend Swanson was relieved at havin’ a still patient after that. Arthur had sure been happy the threat of being kicked in the damn balls was over with.

“You– you’re gonna be okay. Gonna be okay…” He pats the top of John’s hand, allows his words to meander. Strings of phrase that get lost amongst the dust and dead leaves, the splintered wood of the walls and busted furniture. Never was very good at gettin’ the right words to stay. “We fixed you up good, me an’ Abigail. And Swanson’s gonna make damn sure you heal up just fine. So…” Arthur’s lays a lingering kiss to John’s fingers. “Don’t go bein’ a rebel and gettin’ some kinda bad infection we can’t take care of up here. Ruin the work we did on you. No– no hypothermia, shock, none of that horseshit can touch you now, understand? John, I– goddamnit. You ain’t dead or dyin’, yet here I am speakin’... foolish nonsense to you, as if you was. But I… I can’t lose you. That’s the truth. _Not you._ I lost a lot already, sure, but if you…” Arthur heaves a sigh, the honesty draining him. “You ain’t ever allowed to... go without me. And maybe that’s selfish. According to some, that’s all I ever knew how to be. So now’s your best shot at provin’ to everyone, provin’ to me, just what a damn hard ass you are, Marston. Best not disappoint.”

The door opens with the loud keen of old hinges and a low whistle of wind. The wintry air reaches out for Arthur like needles to prick the back of his neck. “It’s just me, Arthur.” Abigail is closing the door with a hard shove of her hip when Arthur turns to peer over his shoulder. He carefully places John’s hand back on the cot, wipes his face so she can’t see the tracks made by tears.

Within the dark, protective circle of her scarf, Abigail’s cheeks are reddened from the biting cold. “Abigail,” Arthur addresses her with a solemn greeting as she walks over. He slips his gloves back on and hopes she don’t think nothing of it. “He uh, he's still out.”

“That's all right.” Abigail gives him half a smile. “Means he ain't in pain, I s’pose.”

“Yeah. No, sure. Sure.” They both watch John, silently. The shallow rise and fall of his chest. A tiny, intermittent cloud of steam bursting into the air from his nose. Abigail's gloved hands are folded neatly in front of her skirts. Face placid as the blankets of snow burying the settlement. “Here, have a seat.” Arthur offers, rising from the chair. “I should be–”

“No, Arthur,” she tries to say, waving a dismissive hand.

“–I insist, or I could pull up another. I should really be goin’, anyhow. I sat here doin’ a whole lot of nothin’ long enough, I reckon.”

 _“No, Arthur.”_ Abigail's voice brooks not a further argument from him. Her brows pinch seriously. “I ain't stayin’ long. Just… wanted to check on John, is all. See if maybe he needed anything. I'll be back around with Jack when he's…” She motions to John. “More with it. Or maybe this is better since he can’t say nothin’ stupid.”

Arthur wears his feelings like a heavy coat woven from the threads of his guilt. And he is so very certain Abigail can see the weight of it pullin’ down on his soul when she really looks at him again. Regardless, some sort of fragile dam breaks inside his chest. He takes one of her hands in his. “Abigail…” It’s a false start, voice betraying Arthur, just the same as he and John have been betrayin’ Abigail’s trust. Folding forward, Arthur rests his head against Abigail’s hand. She lets out a small, confused gasp. Places her other hand below Arthur’s hat, at the nape of his neck.

“Oh, Arthur… what on…”

“Forgive me. Forgive me for any shame I have brought to you… and ‘specially to Jack.” He speaks these things like he is pourin’ sins from out his gut under the steepled roof of a church.

“Arthur what’re you–” She grasps the back of his hat, tugs it to force his head up. He feels no embarrassment for the tears he has shed. He deserves any and all judgement she might reserve in his name.

“You know exactly... what it is I’m sayin’, Miss Roberts. Don’t think either of us wants me to put it more plainly.”

Abigail takes a deep, shaky inhale and looks up towards the ceiling, swallowing thickly. A brief glance is given to John before she sets her sights back on Arthur and grabs tightly onto both his hands. “You– You brought ‘im back. To me, to Jack. Maybe not entirely in one piece but, that’s his own stupid fault. Astounding how somethin’ like this didn’t happen before, really. Anyway, you did that for _us._ And by that, I-I’m meanin’ you too, Arthur. Oh,” She laughs, wetly. Stares down at their joined hands. Arthur squeezes her fingers. “you mighta been a stubborn ass over it, sure. But… I know you was scared for him, too. I seen it in your eyes before, after all.”

“I _was_ scared, Abigail. _Worried,”_ Arthur admits for the first time. “Was hopin’... truthfully, I was hopin’ maybe he’d gotten real spooked by whatever went down in Blackwater. Decided– to take off again. On his own, like before. ‘Cause that was better than the alternative. Not findin’ him at all… or findin’ him– Hellfire, if I hadn’t listened to you an’ Hosea when I did–”

“Don’t,” Abigail hushes him. “Don’t. Arthur Morgan, I want you to listen to me,” she continues quietly. “My little boy, he still has a father ‘cause of you. Because of you and Javier bringin’ John back alive. And that’s what matters. This thing… with… you and–” Arthur goes to stand. This is quickly becomin’ more than he is fit to handle, to face down. Worse than the barrel of a gun or a charging bear. Even more, he don’t want Abigail meeting the entirety of _this_ truth, neither. But she puts a hand up to stop him. “No, you let me finish. John an’ me, we ain't never got on properly, even before. And I’m sure as hell smart enough to know when a man is in love with somebody else. I’ve seen somethin’ besides fear in your eyes when you look at him too, Arthur.” Abigail's hands shake as she places one of Arthur's back over John's. Smiles right on through her sniffling. She brushes hair from her face that ain’t there as she continues, “He's godawful at it – man clearly ain't had no practise and no _real_ gentlemen to teach ‘im right – but… Arthur, I ain't the one John’s been tryin’ to court _all_ this time.”

Court, right. John _courtin’_ him. Like two lovers in one a’ them flowery books Mary-Beth and Tilly are always swooning over. Now that’s gotta be one of the best jokes Arthur’s ever heard.

“Abigail, I– The disrespect I have... so thoroughly brought to you…”

She shakes her head. “Sitting there, trying to lie to me, would be somethin’ disrespectful. It– It ain’t like the two a’ you have been going behind my back.” Abigail scoffs. “Pretty sure I knew before _you_ did.” Before Arthur can find out just what the hell that means, Abigail asks him something that feels a lot like takin’ a bullet when it hits, “You love ‘im, Arthur?” The question is whispered so very quietly, that Arthur almost wishes he didn’t hear it. He closes his eyes at the sound of one single, specific word.

A long, grim silence takes them. Swallows them whole. Arthur wonders which one of ‘em will be the most chewed up once it spits them back out the other end. “Yeah,” he breathes. Opens his eyes to check on John; takes the sight of him in again. There is the faintest sheen of sweat forming along his temple. The fever is creeping back. Reverend Swanson better be in soon to see John, not holed up in one of these other buildings, high off his own wares. “Yes, I do.” Arthur glances up at Abigail. “More than I’m... comfortable sayin’.”

“He know that?”

Arthur loves John in too many different ways. Has known and learned that about himself for a long time now. What he don’t know, not for certain, is how much of that John has felt. He realises he cannot answer for John. Keeps himself shut up, and it seems like that’s all Abigail had been expecting of him, anyhow.

“Of course… can’t even admit it to yerself. You men and corkin’ up your feelings, I swear. No wonder the two a’ you are always so surly around each other. Look, you just keep him safe, all right?” The request is spoken more firmly than anything else. An order. One Arthur ain’t got no plans on disobeying. “Don’t let him make more poor decisions, likely to get himself killed… _or eaten._ ” Abigail rolls her eyes, but Arthur sees one side of her mouth curl in a suppressed smile. “I know that’s a lot to ask– you both bein’ who you are and all. The life we all live. Just... promise me that, please. If you can.”

“Abigail,” And this time, she don’t stop Arthur when he gets up. He ushers them over near the door, away from John and all possibility of him waking to hear any of this. “You got my word on it, that I won’t let any kinda harm come to the three a’ you. Not a single one of you, _I swear it._ I– I can’t change who John is, but I am _tryin’_ to make him _want_ to be a better man. For Jack.”

There is a slight quiver to Abigail’s jaw. She presses her coat sleeve to her mouth, turns away for a short moment. “This was why I wanted it to be either of you. Not who he got.”

“...John ain’t been lying then.” Arthur hangs his head.

“Well… no, not how _you_ been thinkin’ he is, anyway. But I guess I can’t blame ‘im too much, for being like he is about it. John made a fool’s promise to me once, that he’d always look out for us. Maybe he regrets it, I don’t know. He sure as hell ain’t done great, but Jack’s _actual_ father keeps doin’ an even more piss poor job, of late.” Abigail motions angrily towards the door as she speaks. She must see the way Arthur eyes her, unsure. Not with doubt, but with the want for an answer he ain’t owed. “Arthur, I ain’t gonna tell you here. John swore he kept the other half of the promise he made, so I’m guessin’ you got questions. At least one. Maybe… maybe once we get the hell outta these damn mountains to wherever we’re goin’ next, we can talk. Just not here.”

Arthur feels a shard of this mystery slip from his fingertips when a blast of icy air is once more let into the little shack. Dutch is rubbin’ his hands together vigorously when he enters, hat and furred shoulders all dusted with a collected speckling of snow. He kicks the door shut behind him and looks Abigail and Arthur over curiously.

“Arthur. Miss Roberts.”

Caked snow tracks are left to melt atop the dull floorboards as Dutch makes his way to the fireplace. The flames have been dwindling for some time now. A lot of the chopped firewood that was left around here is too wet to burn properly due to the heavy snow cover, and they been savin’ what unneeded or broken furniture they can until absolutely necessary. Hopes are they won’t be here that long for it to come to that.

Arthur turns to Abigail as she heads out. “Anything you need... You or your boy,” Arthur tells her. “Anything.” She nods without a word. 

The moment Abigail is gone, Dutch asks Arthur, “How’s he doing?” It’s clear he means John by the way Dutch grimaces in the direction of the cot, the still body upon it. Dutch remains crouched in front of the small hearth, warmin’ himself by what fire he can.

“He’s…” Arthur gestures vaguely. “Ain’t no better really, but I reckon he ain’t worse, neither. From what I can tell. So that’s... somethin’.”

“Suppose it is,” Dutch agrees and stands to meet Arthur. Gives him an amicable pat on the arm. “Speaking of the _needs_ of people, Arthur: Mister Pearson has alerted Hosea and I that we are about to be in some very dire straits where our food supply is concerned, my friend. We cannot wait for the weather to break further. Not for this. Especially with us acquiring an extra mouth to feed overnight as we have. We need to keep our strength up for what comes next. Didn’t– get clear of government agents only to starve to death in some godforsaken abandoned mining town, now did we?”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, guess we didn’t. That _would_ go with the type a’ luck we been having lately, though.” He gets a stern look for that remark.

“Don’t be such a pessimist, son. Now– is _not_ the time. It is never the time for defeatism or doubt. We always prevail, you know that.”

“I know, I know. Hey, didn’t you send out Lenny and Bill to bring somethin’ back to Pearson? Or did he eat it all ‘imself already?”

“Hours searching, and returned... with nothing.” Dutch’s shoulders fall while his eyes raise to pierce into Arthur’s. “Morale is... is not good, as you may have noticed. People are _tired,_ weak, fretful. Grieving.” Dutch pauses as if he wants to be sure the bitter taste the word leaves in his mouth permeates the room. To let Arthur sense it, too. He don’t know that Arthur’s been busy grievin’ a man lost and then found. A pattern with him and John he is not sure he could handle one more time. “You know that and I know that,” Dutch goes on. “Weren’t exactly jumping to go out in the storm again on top of all a’ this.”

“Well, ‘course you sent a man second in laziness only to _Uncle,_ and another who’d rather be sittin’ by a fire with ‘is nose buried in books better used for kindling. So it’s no small wonder they both come back empty-handed.” Dutch glowers at Arthur, a tiredness borne of trying his best to keep everyone going etchin’ the lines around his eyes a little deeper, pulling his perpetual frown down lower. “All right. So, so what d’you need of _me_ then, Dutch? Game is scarce. Animals– they been stayin’ clear of this weather, too. _Some spring…”_ He motions to John. “Look, the blizzard had wolves desperate enough to chew on Marston, for Christ’s sake. And apparently,” Arthur forces out a laugh, “humankind ain’t the only ones that leave with a bad taste in their mouths after meetin’ him.”

Dutch lays a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, directing them both towards the door. “And things, have settled down. People have settled in. You _are_ one of our best providers. Always have been, and I am simply asking you to be that again. So, do… what it is you are good at. These people,” Once they are outside, Dutch glances around the canvases of pure white that soften up edges on the bones of what’s left of this squat little settlement. Spruce trees, with their snow-laden boughs, dip towards roofs like paintbrushes anxious to bring the landscape back to a livelier green. “These people are depending on us. On you, son.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m the best at much of anythin’, Dutch, just good at most. And huntin’... well, I know what to do with my rifle once the animals is in front of me, but tracking? Seeking ‘em out? I’d say normally, Charles is gonna be the man most suited for that kinda job. But his hand–” 

“And that is why, you’ll both be going. Two of my best men. A team with some sense and skill! I know you won’t let us down. Or soon we’ll be pickin’ questionable berries and dipping into leftover cans of mystery meats.” Dutch smiles at him with a chuckle, and Arthur feels a bit of dread seep further into his bones along with the cold.

Come to find out, this whole thing – Arthur bein’ the one to go out hunting – had been mostly _Charles’s_ idea. He’d offered himself up so long as someone else worth a damn at killin’ what they was aiming at came too. With Charles’s tracking abilities, and knowing how to trust the land to lead ‘em, Arthur is once more just a convenient gunhand. Only, Charles has it in his head he is gonna teach Arthur the proper way to hunt with a bow, since he can’t be the one to do it himself currently. 

Man had been tryna help folks off the very ferry they’d been robbin’ before the fire that had started in the chaos began sinking the ferry into the river. For his honour, Charles had burned his hand pretty good. Injury and all, he is still one of the most useful outta all of them. Arthur doesn’t really understand what Charles is still doin’ with them lately, truth be told, and said as much to him, too. Charles claimed he was done travellin’ solo. Also mentioned that Dutch treated him more fair than most else would. Sure, Arthur’d bet that was true. But the same can surely not be said for how the whole lot of them treat the world around them anymore. Guess money is money, however. Arthur can no longer be so certain what their code is most days. Things has changed so much over the years. They all abide by somethin’... maybe it don’t matter what, so long as it don’t get them caught or killed.

Thankfully, the blizzard has mostly cleared out, it seems. Despite the low temperature being fairly wicked still, the ride ain’t too awful; worst part mainly bein’ Arthur’s mind wanting to wander away from him to grimmer thoughts out here. The cold, he can stand. Arthur hadn’t had much time to mourn his horse, what with all the scurryin’ they’d done up into Ambarino, and then searchin’ for John… He’d had a lot weighing on his mind. Too much. Presently, on the back of yet another unfamiliar horse, Arthur most certainly misses the sure gate of Boadicea he had become so accustomed to over many years. Even now, Arthur don’t got the time to dwell on it. He is thankful for Charles’s previous generosity in lending him a beautiful, even-tempered horse like Taima, and now having yet another horse to ride at all. Arthur doesn’t think he’d have been as willing with letting someone else ride Bo’. All in all, this trip is something to take him away from the mournful shadow hangin’ over Colter. To keep him too busy to think of more than the task at hand.

Arthur supposes he should also be some kinda grateful for the distraction Charles is so intent on creatin’ with his conversational choices. Not quite the distraction he’d been particularly lookin’ for.

“It must be trying. Seeing him that way.” Charles takes lead again as their horses plod through the snow, following along the trail of small divots left by cloven hooves. He’d been wonderin’ what exactly happened with John, straight from someone who was there. Or for the aftermath, anyhow. Also wondered more about the woman Arthur, Dutch, and Micah’d saved. Neither subject was any kinda amusin’. But shared chaos had a way of bringing folks together over peculiar things.

All that was better than Charles tryin’ to get Arthur to discuss his damn _feelings_ again. “Ah, not too much different than the usual. Seein’ John in any sort of way is a _tryin’_ affair.”

“Again with this?”

There’s no real need to respond, so Arthur chooses not to.

“You know Arthur, you’re in good company. What I always understood, to my mother’s people – and quite a few tribes as I’ve heard, in travelling – is that it’s normal, you are not shunned. So if you ever feel like it’s getting to be too much to hold in any longer…”

“Ain’t anything to say. ‘Cept that I say we drop it. Now, we huntin’ or gossipin’? Thought... key to a successful hunt was to _keep quiet.”_ It’s Arthur who’s the one raisin’ his voice to a much higher volume than Charles of course, on account of his being annoyed with the implied topic of debate. That, and the icy breeze stinging his eyes ever so often as he tries to watch for tracks in the snow.

“All I’m saying is, if you ever need to get anything off your chest, to feel unafraid, you _or_ John… I’m here. Everyone has been through a lot the past couple days, you two especially.”

“And that’s– very kind of you and all, but as I said, there ain’t nothin’ to discuss. About me and John. Besides, I ain’t lost nothing, not like some folks.”

Pensive, Charles stares at Arthur before opening his mouth again. “Almost did. And from what little I’ve gathered, you cared for that horse of yours enough, too.” With a voice as calm and steady as Charles’s, Arthur can’t bring himself to argue again. And not when the man is right. Charles slows Taima to a halt. “I’m going to check the tracks again, come on. Think we’ll likely have to go on foot from here.”

As Charles dismounts, Arthur rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh and gets down off his horse, too. His boots sink deep, snow finding its way into his half chaps and crunching quietly under his weight with each wide-legged step.

Charles attempts to teach Arthur the difference between an old track and a new one. Makes Arthur stick his hand in the damned snow. Something about the way the edges of the track hold up or don't. Arthur’s inclined to believe the only important thing right now is that they’re definitely following tracks that _ain’t_ old. He respects Charles’s ways though, and the patience and thought he is putting in to teach Arthur about proper bow hunting and spooring. Lord knows Hosea pretty much gave up on that years ago, not wanting to fight with Arthur’s bullheadedness. So Arthur tries his best not to pretend like he knows what the hell Charles is talkin’ about, and instead listens intently. Takes the lesson for what it is.

When Arthur pulls back the bowstring, he thinks of all the things that have been burdening him the last few weeks. The losses, the running. The different ways he has been hiding. He lets go of that tension with the loosing of the arrow.

The first doe he hits goes down immediately, taking Arthur by surprise with how clean the shot through the neck is. Charles, with quiet enthusiasm, has him aim for one more, a little further out. With a shot of confidence, his aim is even better, though Arthur ain’t sure he’ll be able to force himself into this kinda patience on his own another time. Arthur thinks he might be willing to try, however. Now they gotta wade across an icy river to go get the damned things. Great.

After securing their haul up on the horses, they make their way to camp. The ride back is a much more peaceful and quiet one, besides nearly runnin’ into a large grizzly sniffing around. But Arthur finds a kinda peace in that, too. Simply watching the large animal – a stark, contrasting shape against the snowy landscape – amble on with its own business of hunting, undisturbed, even if it could feed their group longer than these two deer they bagged. They let it go and take a different path to camp.

Later, Arthur does his part in unloading the deer, helping Pearson skin them. The godawful rum he is offered for his labour tastes like antiseptic and burnt sugar, but it takes the edge off his mood. Warms him superficially. His eyes water as he takes another generous swig before heading off to the larger house where he, Dutch, Molly, and Hosea have themselves a place to stay. Stiff, frost-encrusted pants and socks are finally a way to get Arthur to change clothes.

With some warmer, but not much cleaner clothing on, and bland, thin stew in his stomach, Arthur decides to check in on everyone after nightfall. The men are bored, some tryin’ to get drunk off Pearson’s stash of spirits he so thoughtfully grabbed in their scramble. They bitch and bicker, but otherwise seem like they’re gettin’ on. Arthur sticks around for a song Javier plays enthusiastically on his guitar. Some of them try to act like they can sing along in Spanish until it all divulges into half-drunk laughter. The third time a bottle is passed into Arthur’s hands, he decides he’s had his fill and wants look in on the women, see if they need anything. First though, Arthur finds himself fetching an extra blanket for Jack – one of the thicker woven ones he owns – and pokes through John’s belongings they been keeping in the bigger house, out of the elements. No one really said a thing when Arthur’d moved John’s trunk into his little room the day before. Seemed they figured he was bein’ extra kind outta guilt for always havin’ a harsh word for John prior to Blackwater. Maybe they just didn’t want to get involved with the why.

For show, and a bit of usefulness, Arthur’s kept John’s trunk beside his bed to set a small oil lamp on.

The women, much like the fellers, are also finding the atmosphere around Colter relatively tedious. They’re tired and most are lettin’ their worries pull them down into an exhausted sleep. So Arthur only sticks around long enough to give Abigail his spare blanket, then drapes one of John’s old fur-lined coats over Jack’s small, curled up form lying beside her hip. He shifts a little in the bedroll, cracks his heavy eyelids open to peer up at Arthur.

“That there’s one a’ your Pa’s,” Arthur tells him, keepin’ his voice hushed. Jack looks as though he tries to snuggle into the collar of it; soft, silvery wolf fur brushes against his round cheek. Arthur grins at the irony, and Abigail is smiling too when Arthur looks back to her.

“Thank you, Arthur.”

He waves the gratitude off. “Naw, it's nothin’. Thought maybe... it'd bring him some kinda comfort, I dunno.” Arthur thinks briefly on the times he'd arrive at Eliza's, a bit too late in the evening, only to find Isaac fast asleep in his small bed with an old, wrinkled shirt of Arthur's tucked in beside him. The way it softened his heart.

“I mean it,” Abigail insists.

“Just wish there was… somethin’ more I could do right now. Days have been hard on all of us. Can't imagine how it is for him.” He inclines his head towards Jack.

“We’ll all be better once we get outta here, but… he’ll be fine. He’s doin’ okay. Jack's a resilient boy.”

Something familiar tugs painfully at Arthur’s heart. “Oh, you’re right, he is. That he is.”

The surety Arthur had upon entering the small house, in thinking John was passed out, is shot to hell when a small log he feeds into the fire pops loudly. Damn thing throws a shower of sparks at him, too. Arthur quickly backs away, brushing the lapels of his coat off and cursing the smell of singed fur.

He hears John stirring. “Arthur?”

“Shit. Yeah, sorry. You uh– didn't mean to wake you.” Arthur walks over and takes his usual seat in the chair beside the cot.

Turning his head to face the wall, John mutters, “Don't matter, ain't finding much sleep with whatever Reverend Swanson's been shootin’ into me wearin’ off now.”

“You want me to get him? ‘Cause if you’re in pain, I'll go wake that–”

“No, no…” John shakes his head a little. “Stuff makes me feel kinda sick, if I'm honest. Finally got a little something in my stomach today that didn't want to come back up. Pain ain’t too unbearable right now. Don't know how that man uses so much of the shit all the time and still functions.”

“Yeah, well. Look at how the sorry sack is sometimes. ‘Functioning’ ain’t really how I’d describe it. Sure, he got his uses when he’s sober enough for it, but… Effects ain't exactly pretty. Helped your dumbass, though, huh?”

“Showed me a different kinda god he got in one of them books a’ his.” John attempts to smile at his own poor jab at the reverend, but it turns into a grimace of pain and he takes in a gulping breath, letting it out slowly. “Guess I ain't too pretty these days, neither. Less than usual. Sorry you– sorry you gotta see me like this. I owe you though, Arthur. Escuella, too. For findin’ me. Really, I do...” His voice croaks as he trails off. A wheezy laugh barely works its way outta John’s chest. “There any mirrors around this place, keep 'em away from me. Don't wanna go breaking 'em and give us more bad luck stacked on top of what we already got. Or I got, apparently. Swear, no matter what I try...”

Arthur frowns. “John. Hey, look at me.” John ignores him, tries turning his face away more. Rolls partially onto his side before the pain in his leg stops him. 

That won’t do, though. Not if what Arthur assumes John is gonna start gettin’ in his foolish head is what’s going on here. Arthur’s seen it – the worst of John’s wounds – ain’t no secret, and it’s not as if John can hide something like that, what’s on his damn face. Yeah, it _ain’t_ gonna be pretty, once all those scratches and bites heal up. No way ‘round that. Thing is, that don’t matter a goddamn whit to Arthur.

He gets up to sit on the edge of the cot, places his hand at the center of John’s chest. _“You look at me,”_ Arthur grits out through his teeth. John only brushes him off, tries pushing Arthur away, even. But Arthur grabs his hand up, holds it tight. “Hey, _hey._ I got you. I _got you,_ John.”

“Yeah?” John asks in a disbelieving, sneering tone; a way that suggests he’d really like to argue that point if he had the energy or strength to. Despite that, he grips Arthur's hand back just as tightly. Does his best to look at Arthur from the corner of his left eye. Don’t look completely swollen shut anymore, but Arthur can tell the eye is still givin’ him trouble by the way John gives in and turns his head back towards Arthur some. “You sure about that?”

See, Abigail was right when she’d said Arthur went lookin’ for John for himself, too. He just weren’t going to admit that outright to her. Fourteen years together under the criminal tutelage of Dutch and Hosea… Arthur could have been makin’ up excuses and bein’ scared all he wanted, but he liked to believe he still mighta had the faith Dutch so fiercely instilled in him to not let that time go to waste for him and John. Abigail and Hosea’s words were just the shove he needed to get his head out of his own ass.

Arthur rubs his eyes with his free hand and breathes a heavy sigh. Sets his hat on the small stool nearby. “Yeah… I'm sure. Whatever happens.” He leans down over John to press their foreheads together gently, mindful of the bandages. John fusses in his efforts to turn away again– his breath comes a little quicker, a little panicked. “Listen when I say I mean it. Between us, the gang. It don't matter. I’m sure. We're gonna get out of here once the weather lets up some more. You're gonna heal, be back on your feet... even if it takes a little while.”

“You know I hate feelin’ useless. Hate… fuckin’ up. But here I am, doin’ it, yet again.”

“Yeah… well, shoulda thought about that before you went dangling yourself in front of them wolves like a hunk of prime rib.”

John playfully knocks his head forward into Arthur’s, grasping the side of his face. “Really missed the sweet way you speak to me, y’know. You reek of liquor, by the way.” His thumb brushes through Arthur’s beard, and Arthur briefly cants his head until his guilty smile is curving against John’s palm.

And it’s dangerous, them bein’ this close. No excuse they could give if anyone but a certain few walked in right now. Arthur shoves those thoughts away, the part of himself still too damn cowardly for this. John and him need this moment badly. Just somethin’ to hearten them for the time being. “‘Little Johnny Marston,’” Arthur smirks, truly feeling a small ember of happiness smouldering in his chest again, “‘threw _himself_ to the wolves for the good of the gang. Literally. A brave fool.’ Could’ve chiseled that on yer tombstone. Gonna... have to come up with a better story for them scars a’ yours, I reckon.”

“Sorry my nearly gettin’ eaten, bein’ both half-froze _and_ half-starved all while lost up on a goddamn _mountain_ ain’t sensational enough a tale for you, Arthur.” John shifts his head and lets out a quiet groan of pain again. “Son of a bitch.”

“Me or the… well… leg, face, arm–”

“All of it.”

“Think maybe you’re about done talkin’ for the night.”

“Think maybe you’re right,” John agrees, hand going to the cut on his mouth, checkin’ his fingertips for blood to likely see if it’s reopened.

“But, like I said, we're all gonna be okay. Dutch's got a plan,” Arthur tries reassuring him, saying it out loud for them both, really. “An’ we're gonna come outta this. Just need to try stayin’ positive.”

Arthur squeezes John’s hand before it falls away from his cheek. He sits up and takes a heaving breath. “Get some rest. Think Dutch might want me an’ a few of the others to head out in the mornin’ with ‘im to go scouting for that camp of Colm’s.”

“Don’t think it’ll be that easy… d’you?”

With a shrug, Arthur answers John honestly. “Not really, no. Never is where Dutch and Colm’s concerned, of course. But if we can get a leg up on him in any way, my guess is it’s better than his boys gettin’ one up on us again. ‘Specially while we’re stranded up here with so little as is.”

“Right. Hey, you uhm, think you could... stay a little longer, I dunno. Just until I feel like…” John lets out a breathy laugh, which he quickly regrets, cupping his bandaged cheek instantly. Arthur is strongly tempted to insult his intelligence, but John’s doin’ that just fine on his own. “Don’t know how to ask, damnit.”

“Sure you do. But what’d I say about you talkin’?” Arthur thinks maybe John tries giving him a sour look and is mostly unsuccessful.

“Remember when… Bessie used to sit by me if I was real sick when I was younger?”

“Of course.” Bessie used to mollycoddle them both a little, but John, bein’ young as he was then, she took to motherin’ at him the most. “Like that time– think, think you must a’ been what? Fifteen? She stayed sat near your bedroll, two nights in a row, ‘til you fell asleep. Readin’ to you by candlelight. ‘Cause of _nightmares_ or some nonsense.”

“One of the goddamn packhorses bucked me and I damn near broke my ankle gettin’ caught up in the panniers and stirrup when I fell! Thought I was gonna get– kicked in the head or dragged. Had nightmares about it for days even after the sprain mended, okay?”

Arthur chuckles, remembering Dutch and Hosea recounting John's equine misfortune to him. John had just been learnin’ how to ride properly then. Didn't yet have a horse of his own. Arthur gets up and sits back in his chair. Needs to put some physical distance between John and all the memories of better times he is conjuring up. “Well, sorry to say, but I ain't got no bedtime stories to tell you, Marston.”

John goes quiet. Arthur wonders if he finally might keep himself that way.

“...Sorry 'bout Boadicea,” John ends up whispering. “Heard Hosea mention it yesterday. She was a _real_ good animal.”

To Arthur, she was more than just some animal, of course. But he appreciates the sentiment, comin’ from John. “Yeah… me too. And sorry for Lady.” That coulda been John– torn apart worse than he already is. Frozen body left to be shrouded beneath the cover of snowfall. He realises then, why John wants ‘im to stay. “You been through a lot more than all the ones what made it out, I guess.”

“Ain’t just the _wolves,_ Arthur. It’s… I don’t know. Everything. Soon as my eyes close it’s either them, or the snow, or relivin’ the damn ferry. Seein’ Dutch shoot that girl… her scream–”

“Hey now,” Arthur reaches out, places his hand on John’s knee. “No use goin’ back there. Try– try getting your mind away from all that. That’s over. You sure you don’t want me to go kick the reverend awake? Get you some more morphine or somethin’?”

“Nah, only…” John exhales heavily through his nose, turns his head to face the wall again. 

Fingers blindly seek out Arthur’s across the blanket. A few more fleeting touches, fingertips tracing over chapped and cracked knuckles, down a warm palm. Arthur massages the pulse point of John’s wrist beneath his sleeve, desperate to lay a kiss there, to feel the rhythm of his heart against his lips. That liveliness, the dogged soul, that wasn’t taken away from Arthur like he was so silently afraid of. He lets go of John’s wrist, covers ‘im up to his neck with the blankets, despite some minor grumblings he gets for it. Arthur takes his hat and places it snugly back atop his head, tilting it forward to cover his eyes a bit. The chair ain’t the worst place he’s slept, but it’s still hard to shift around and find a comfortable way to slouch back in it.

He crosses his arms, tucks his hands into his armpits. “I’m gonna be here, John. Just you rest. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Peeking from beneath the brim of his hat, Arthur sees John give a small nod. Something about him settles– whatever it is, it settles in Arthur, too.

Can’t say who drifts off first, but it’s Miss Tilly who kindly wakes Arthur. Tellin’ him it’s an hour after sunrise when he slurs the inquiry about what time it is through a wakefulness that is slow to reach him. She tends to the fire, and soon, a flurry of skirts come bustlin’ into the house, with Susan Grimshaw hot on the ladies’ heels, barking orders. Abigail, Karen, and Mary-Beth bring in Missus Adler, seating her beside the fire with a warm cup of coffee pressed into her hands. Then it's Abigail who takes over for Arthur's watch over John, giving him a pitying, yet sympathetic look as they pass each other.

While Arthur stretches and pops his back, tilting his head side to side to try and loosen up the almighty crick he’s got in his neck, Miss Grimshaw studies him.

“Mister Morgan,” she starts in on him, voice already stern as ever. “Didn't I procure you a room?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

Hands on her hips, Miss Grimshaw then inquires, “And does that room not have a _bed?”_

Feeling very much like a scolded child, Arthur sighs with a shamed nod.

“Then why’re you here, sleeping in some rickety-backed chair playing nursemaid to John? Lookin’ to wind him up soon as he wakes?”

“I hear you, I hear you… I’ll be out yer way now.” Arthur waves her off. Rubs the back of his neck half out of slight embarrassment, half to continue easing the stiffness there.

“Good. And I suggest you get some coffee and food in you. Think Dutch is already champing at the bit over some scheme a’ his concerning them O’Driscoll Boys he wants you to help him with.”

As Arthur heads out the door, he shoots a, _“Fine mornin’ to ya’ll, by the way,”_ over his shoulder to all the women, in the cheeriest voice he can muster, just to spite Susan. Makes _him_ laugh, anyway. 

Outside of Pearson’s makeshift butcher station, Arthur finds Lenny and Javier with Dutch; Bill and Micah are giving each other a wide berth courtesy of Dutch seemingly playing mediator. Looks like the two morons might either swing fists or draw guns. Arthur couldn’t care less if they shot one another full a’ holes. Less mouths to feed or hear bitchin’ from. Think Micah just about rubs everyone the wrong way.

The six of them end up riding out to where Colm’s camp is, finding it easily enough with horse tracks in the crusting snow leading the way. But they let that son of a bitch leave before sneaking in. Rather than tryin’ to kill Colm, they become intent on makin’ him look like a grand fool by killin’ his men and spoilin’ his plans for that train robbery they heard tell of. Determined to steal anything they can find related to it, too.

At one point, between all the gunfighting, the bastard who Arthur had beat down in the barn back at Adler Ranch is yelling to ‘im about how Arthur shoulda killed him when he had the chance, instead of lettin’ him go. He shuts up real fuckin’ quick when Arthur puts a bullet in his throat.

They wipe out the men left at the camp, though some flee on horseback like the cowards they are. Blood turns the snow to red slush all around Arthur and the gang as they scramble to loot bodies and find the robbery plans. Ain’t likely no law’ll find them up here, but their main concern is the assholes that fled coming back with more manpower… or Colm. Luck is fortunately on their side, and they find all they need, including the explosives and detonator the O’Driscolls were to use to blow the rail. Colm had plans to hit a big train belonging to some feller by the name of Leviticus Cornwall. Arthur ain’t ever heard of ‘im.

Arthur never had a problem with killing men like them or worse– particularly not when it comes to O’Driscoll scum. Regardless, there is a special type a’ satisfaction, a justice, in killing these bastards today. For what they done to Missus Adler and her husband. The gang don’t deal much in revenge, but this feels somethin’ like it. Just a little. Even related to Dutch and Colm’s drawn out blood feud as it is. Though, Arthur don’t think it will change much of how that poor woman likely sees the world now. Ain’t gonna bring back her husband or give her the safety and comfort of her life prior to those rotten pieces of dog shit finding that ranch of hers.

Dutch deems the day a success. And they sure as hell been needing one.

For all that, on the way back to camp it seems their luck ain’t done turning around. Out ahead of them, they spot a scrawny lookin’ feller hightailing it on horseback along the creek. It’s easy to catch up to him, and then they – courtesy of Arthur’s quick hand and keen aim with a lasso – catch themselves an O’Driscoll.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! Unrelated to this chapter, I think I forgot to address in a couple comments on the previous one: Some of you wondered what exactly John was doing in Arthur's journal- we'll get to that eventually! ;) Possibly the next few chapters, we'll see. I just love that I've piqued curiosities with that lol
> 
> Sorry this update took so long to arrive!


	9. A Family of Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is of an, admittedly, unusual format. And may not be what some anticipated after so long between updates ::grimace::  
> Just bear with me, guys!!♥ (I have a... a _plan?_ )
> 
> To err on the safe side, I'm giving a small warning for a brief scene containing a physical fight between John & Arthur when John was seventeen.

_No wonder there are those lights of suspicion moving  
_ _endlessly over memory and its faces  
_ _over the way of memory itself the way  
_ _of remembering which is the way of forgetting  
_ _the way of horizons the way beyond reach the way  
_ _of another which appears at times to be the only way  
_ _when not one thing one moment with its heavenly  
_ _bodies flying through unrepeated places not one  
_ _sound or shining is what it was the one time before  
_ _it was remembered when I was in the midst of it  
_ _looking out thinking about something far from there[...]_

\- W.S. Merwin, excerpt from “The View”

* * *

_“Arthur.”_

One foot in, and one foot outta consciousness at the incessant sound of his name, Arthur manages to come to completely when he feels a nudge at his leg. “What _is it?”_ he complains to whoever is rudely interrupting his sleep. “M’up. I’m up...”

The muscles in his neck strain sharply for how he’s fallen asleep sittin’ against a barrel. He pulls his hat back a little, straightens it on his head. The smooth metal of the rifle resting on his thigh is cold beneath his fingers. Arthur blinks up to see Dutch starin’ down at ‘im. Beyond his shoulders, the sky is too dark a blue for morning, yet still too light– not quite sunrise, then. But damn, how long has he been out?

“Shit. Dutch, I’m real–”

Dutch cuts him off with a quick smile. “This is why Hosea and I are so _particular_ about you gettin’ your rest when it’s needed, son.”

Arthur rolls his neck, stretches his back in an arch until it crackles and tries to say, “Didn’t sleep in yesterday, got up with the sun today just fine, but–”

“But you stayed up nursin’ the rest of that bottle of whiskey,” comes the judgemental voice of Susan Grimshaw, sellin’ him out. Behind where Dutch stands, Arthur can see her sat on a folding chair, shotgun held across her lap. Susan leans forward to give him a real stern look from around Dutch’s legs.

_“Shit.”_

“Oh, I think Susan here held the place down all right. No worries, there.” Dutch chuckles. “But I didn’t quite wake you to give a lecture, Arthur.” Arthur looks up at Dutch, a bit confused. Rubs his eyes. Hears Susan scoff, but Dutch continues, “You see, in our short travels, Hosea and I bumped into someone I would very much like you to meet. The both of you, really.” Dutch’s smile grows, beams like the sun, and it might be infectious if Arthur weren’t so damned bewildered.

Arthur hopes it ain’t some new woman. Dutch don’t need that right now. Nothin’ long-term, anyway. Arthur could understand the man gettin’ lonesome sometimes. It has been but a year since Annabelle, however. And besides, things is still oddly tense some days between Dutch and Hosea, ever since Hosea started taking trips to visit Bessie more an’ more often at the small homestead he helped her acquire. That shit alone messes with Arthur’s head a bunch.

Hell, what does he know? Maybe Dutch could use the distraction. Someone new. Someone unattached to their group. Then again... Arthur thinks about the two new “distractions” from heartbreak he has out there himself, and decides to just quit thinkin’ and shut his mind up all together.

“Well, who is it?” Susan asks the question Arthur’s still too drowsy to voice.

“I’ll have Hosea ride in with ‘im. Wanted you two to be prepared, first. Hold on, just a moment!” Dutch jogs off towards the sentinel treeline, callin’ after Hosea. Susan and Arthur share a suspicious glance with one another.

“I’m _real_ sorry, Miss Grimshaw.” Arthur gets to his feet, slinging his rifle onto his shoulder as he walks backwards in the direction Dutch had gone. “Really, I am. I’ll uh, find you somethin’ nice, next time I go into town”–he places his hand over his heart–“or whatever you need, promise!” The disappointment hardening the line of Susan’s mouth softens into the kind of smile that tells Arthur she is still ready to call his bluff if he don’t watch hisself.

Arthur quickly catches up to Dutch just as Hosea trots in on his elegant red roan. At the sight of who rides double with him, Arthur wishes it were a woman he and Dutch brought real goddamn fast.

Unsaddling The Count, casual as can be, Dutch is chuckling to ‘imself, pleased-like. “Now, he is a bit shy, but he’ll warm up to us once he realises _we_ ain’t the kinda people he needs to be fearing.”

“Well, it’s understandable, Dutch.” Hosea brings Aled to a stop a few yards from the edge of their camp. “We didn’t much make the best first impression, I’d imagine. Considering the scene we–”

The skin along Arthur’s shoulders prickles and he stops listening to whatever Hosea and Dutch are sayin’. Feels his underarms sweat and his heart picking up in its rhythm. “We– what is this?” Arthur turns to glare at Dutch. Hears Susan’s hurried footsteps along the crunch of dead leaves behind him. “We ain’t in the business of _kidnappin’,_ Dutch! ...Hosea?” Arthur hopes the man he considers the more practical of the two can point him towards a logical explanation, one that don’t involve the lot of them being arrested for stealin’ somebody’s boy. And for what, a damn ransom or some horseshit? Since when the hell do they do that?

“A _child?”_ Susan asks, incredulous. “My Lord, but he’s... he’s so _scrawny,_ the poor thing!” She rushes over towards Hosea and the skinny bugger that’s sat in front of him in the saddle, lookin’ scared as a spooked deer and frail as a foal. Damn dirty, too.

“Street urchin, then?”

“In a word, yes, I suppose so,” Hosea answers Arthur, dismounting smoothly from Aled’s back. It takes the efforts of Hosea and Susan both to pry the boy's fingers from the saddle horn and get ‘im down.

“Ain’t our responsibility.”

The boy’s hair is dark and dusty. A little matted too, maybe, where it hangs ‘round his face and ears. Clothes look a size or so too big, and like they needed mending years ago. Arthur’s also pretty sure he has seen better shoes on an old, neglected nag than what this boy’s got on his feet.

“Y’know, I am shocked and disheartened to hear you say that, Arthur.” Dutch places a hand between Arthur’s shoulder blades and guides him back towards camp as the others follow. “We took you in, didn’t we? Out of the goodness of our hearts, gave you a second chance at life– a purpose. And what has a large part of our mission always been, the one we’ve taught you ever since?”

“Help those that’s less fortunate,” Arthur mutters.

“Hosea, tell Arthur here how we found this poor, innocent soul.”

The boy trails hesitantly behind Hosea. He stares up at Aled with nervous wonder while Hosea leads the stallion towards the watering bucket. Eyes wide with fear dart around the camp and the boy shrinks further.

Hosea shakes his head, face grim. “Ah yes, turns out some haughty, rich folk think the best way to help children so starved they've gotta turn to stealing, is not by offering alms, no. But by setting them up for a goddamn lynching. Would have probably charged him for the rope they used if the boy had a penny of his own.”

Arthur hears Susan’s soft gasp. Makes his own disbelievin’ sound by passing an exasperated breath through his teeth.

“We uh, tried to offer money for him, of course– before things had to turn... as they did. Some people need a little more forceful convincing.” Dutch pulls out a modest, suede pouch from his saddlebags and tosses it to Arthur. Thing feels near-burstin’. Upon loosening the drawstring, Arthur glimpses a fine loot of gold jewelry, gemmed and all. At least two shiny pocket watches, too. “They had enough on them to feed John here, and all of us for a couple months. _Replaceable things._ Yet they could not offer him a small billfold and send him on his way. Greed like that, it makes me sick.” He shakes his head slowly, composing himself from his disgust. “Arthur, you’ll head to the fence tomorrow. You're welcome to look through it first, of course. Maybe you’ll find some pretty bauble in there you might want to bring on to Eliza, hm?”

Arthur’s head snaps up, plucking an unfamiliar name from what Dutch had said. “John?”

“Ah! Slipped my mind. _Formal introductions, Hosea!”_ Again, the boy seems to try hidin’ in Hosea’s tall shadow as Dutch attempts to usher him forward towards Arthur with excited motions. “This, is Arthur Morgan. And Arthur, this here, is John Marston. Shot ‘im down from the noose, myself.” 

Up close, in the light of the campfire, Arthur can see a ring of red ‘round John’s thin neck. He grunts down at him by way of greeting. If Arthur weren’t mistaken, he swears the kid’s brows furrow in a barely-there scowl in response.

Susan introduces herself to John, much more politely. “You must be positively starved. Let’s get you something to eat, hm? Are you hungry?”

The ragged whisper of confirmation that comes out of the boy’s mouth sounds painful. Arthur crosses his arms and watches Susan take John over to their provisions wagon.

“What we going to do with him?” Arthur aims his question at Dutch and Hosea.

Dutch’s eyebrows raise and he barks a laugh. “What did we do with _you,_ Arthur? Did we ever send you away? No, we continually provide you with the stability you so craved as a youngster. And we believe young John deserves the same things: a chance to make your own way, and become a man that has worked towards unparalleled freedom, far from the constraints and judgements of people like that.” He nods towards John. “People who find punishing _children_ by hanging a moral cliffside they’ve no issue leapin’ off of.”

“Why leap?” Hosea scoffs derisively. “When they can have such a high vantage point to look down on all of us? In their eyes, they _do_ hold the moral high ground. We’re the barbarians refusing to assimilate.”

Things was getting too deep for Arthur and the little sleep he’d unintentionally got was callin’ back to him. “Right. Where are we putting him?”

Before turning to Arthur, Dutch and Hosea give one another a knowin’ look. Arthur would say it was damn near conspiratorial. Dutch is the one to answer. “For now, he can share your tent until we’re–”

Arthur walks away from the campfire, trying not to stomp like a displeased child.

❧

For awhile, Arthur has strong concerns that John is only good for pickpocketing and eatin’ up more of their food. And kickin’ him in his sleep.

Couple years later, they have Pearson amongst their group, cooking them up real food – though the taste would fool a man otherwise at times – which saves them a bunch of money on provisions, but it meant more work for Arthur. Ain’t like John could help hunt none. Had no skill for it– the shootin’ nor the trackin’ part. Dutch and Hosea do not ever seem too pressed to teach the kid how to fish and actually catch something, so that is left up to Arthur, too. Most days, he doesn't mind it, but even still, Arthur feels like John should be carrying more weight around camp. At least Arthur knew how to shoot fairly well when he joined up with the gang.

“I don’t want him going back to some orphanage, wasting away, Arthur. Lord knows he’d likely just find a means to run away from one again now that he’s been clear from that kinda living for this long.”

Arthur nods, knowin’ Hosea is right. “That ain’t what I’m sayin’. I just… feel like… the jobs we do, they’re dangerous. Can’t rightly bring a kid along, hopin’ he can maybe snatch his hand into train passengers' pockets and not get shot for it while we’re busy robbin’ the damn train! And when he hardly knows how to protect ‘imself. Ain’t safe. Can't hunt 'cause he can't aim. Can't go fishin' alone 'cause he might fall in the goddamn drink and drown!"

“You’re wonderin’ what else he can do for the gang.”

Scratchin’ the back of his neck, Arthur shrugs. Tries to hide beneath the brim of his hat. “Well, yeah, I guess so. Guess that's what I'm saying.”

Hosea is giving him a hard stare when Arthur lifts his head. “You weren’t too worried about what contributions the women were making.” Arthur sputters, but then Hosea’s mouth curls in a mischievous smile. He pats Arthur’s knee, laughing quietly. “John will learn how to shoot soon enough, Arthur. Soon enough. Some don’t take to being a gunhand or robbin’, and all else that comes with this life, the way we have, though. So you keep that in mind. John didn’t deserve what all happened to him. And you ask me, I don’t believe he owes us a thing in repayment.”

There is a wistful look in his eyes when he turns to where John is sitting on the grass with Bessie. She’s been helpin’ teach him to read in between the lessons from Dutch and Hosea. Dutch has ribbed Arthur more than once over the fact that John has apparently taken to reading and writing much faster than Arthur had. It seems to make John feel like a normal kid. So, Arthur begins to understand a little, reasons behind the reservation he thought he’d picked up on in Hosea’s voice, speakin’ of whether John should learn how to properly use a gun of his own.

❧

Fear, it don’t often come to Arthur on jobs anymore, ‘specially not ones as simple as stagecoach robberies. There is no time to waste on bein’ afraid. But Arthur is afraid when he sees the driver in the stupid hat point a tiny pistol at the back of Bessie’s head. In two seconds, Arthur has time for two rapid thoughts: can he aim and shoot quicker than that idiot can squeeze his trigger, and would it be worth anything to yell for Bessie to duck?

Apparently, in those two seconds, John has all the time he needs to rapidly put two bullets into the side of the driver’s skull, knocking that damn, pompous-lookin’ top hat off his head as he falls. They all look to John, who still has his hands wrapped around the grip of his revolver, one thumb on the hammer – a revolver he weren’t supposed to _have_ with him – and Bessie shrieks when she spins around, seeing the man on the ground behind her. The horses whinny, and the ones attached to the stage try takin’ off, so Arthur rushes over to calm them before they run or buck and hurt themselves.

A widow and her son, new in town and wantin’ directions. That’s what it was supposed to be; a simple enough con on a high-travelled settlement road. But simple ain’t a guarantee of easy– Arthur is learning that lesson more as the years pass. Dutch has the another man knocked out cold, hogtying ‘im while Hosea tends to Bessie’s fright, huggin’ his wife close. John is ordered to get the money and valuables out of the stagecoach, but the kid is frozen until he drops his gun. It’s Arthur that ends up rushing around, filling his bag with bill folds and looting pockets.

This is the first time John has used a gun on a job. Arthur was rightly impressed, though he is left wondering if he should be more worried about John by the time they ride out back to camp, a little bit richer, but not enough by far, to have made that ruckus worth it.

That night, it is explained to John that he can’t go on no more jobs for a little while until they move, seeing as his face an’ Bessie’s weren’t covered. Dutch makes it known he is proud, that it isn't a punishment. Bessie kisses the top of John's head, thanks him for savin’ her life and promises to help Pearson make something real special for him to eat the next time they need to stop in a town to buy provisions and ingredients. Aside from a crooked grin that looks to Arthur more like a grimace, John is silent and still as stone.

Arthur checks in on ‘im, asks if he’s all right, because he feels something like it’s what he should be doing.

“I’m fine. Nobody needs to ask no more.” John’s answer is short and gruff. He tries to cover the way his voice cracks; this time it ain’t because of how it’s changing with age.

Arthur sighs. Consolation was never really something he learned how to do, to be good at. Never got it from his own father, but Hosea and Dutch tried to instill in him a type of compassion, and taught Arthur that it was just fine if a man needed to show his emotions. “It’s all right, you know… if you ain’t. First time you take a man’s life, even if you have to– if you’ve got no choice… not somethin’ that’s easy to swallow. Not unless you ain’t got no heart in your chest.” Some days, Arthur wonders if he still had one, or if the cold emptiness that he sometimes feels beneath his sternum is the loss of love he lived with. Nothin’ to balance out the bad he did. Then the image of Isaac’s big blue eyes, and the sound of his laughter pops into Arthur’s mind and he realises that maybe he’s wrong about that.

John laughs silently. His shoulders shake and he ducks his head down, hiding the pained smile on his face. “Wasn’t the first man I killed.”

That pulls Arthur up short. John has only just turned fifteen, and in the last few years, Arthur has certainly had no knowledge of John killin’ a man. He’s sure he would’ve heard about it from Dutch or Hosea. “I’m sure you did.” Arthur chuckles. “You get a man shot by the law or somethin’? Give an old feller a heart attack breaking into his home at night to steal scraps of food? ‘Cause that don’t quite count.”

“Shot ‘im.” John stares straight ahead. “‘Bout a year before Dutch saved me. Was me or him. Said he had some money and food for me back at his house. That was a lie. Man might not have even lived in that particular settlement. Never found out, ‘cause I got his gun away from him and just did what I saw them men who dueled did. Finger on the trigger, shot from the hip. Think I sprained my wrist from the kickback, but the man lie dead with a hole in his stomach and I was alive, so that was fine. Lady at a saloon saw it and offered me some food and talked the proprietor into lettin’ me have a room for a night free of charge. They both told the truth.” John finally looks up at Arthur from where he's sat by the fire. He seems far too young to have two kills on his hands. Far too young to be this sad. “First time I slept in a bed since the orphanage. Me or him, is what that lady kept tellin' me. I had no choice.”

For some reason, Arthur feels like he should apologise.

❧

The following year, John learns a whole new lesson about death.

The lot of them was fidgety, but John especially. In the night, Bessie had coughing fit, after coughing fit. Even now, they can hear her, just above Hosea’s quiet murmurings in their tent. Arthur hadn’t slept much, and he suspects John didn’t catch many winks, ‘imself. Bessie had been mostly laid up for a couple of weeks, but the past few days had been the worst. She was barely eating aside from bone broth.

“What's wrong with her?” John sits down across from Arthur. He takes out a tobacco tin and rolling papers, gets to work making a loose cigarette while Arthur whittles the crude shape of a deer.

“Consumption.” Arthur shrugs away the dread he feels at speakin’ it. “S'what the doctor in town says.” He wishes he could cut out the memory of Hosea’s face, drawn and dour, when he’d glanced at Arthur while they got Bessie back into the wagon. As Arthur had drawn the horses away from the doctor’s, Hosea quietly told him it _wasn’t good._

Death don’t care about the goodness of someone’s heart. If only that were so, then maybe Arthur’s mother would still be alive and his pa would’ve died long before the son of a bitch actually had. People die who deserve it, Arthur knows that well, but people who should be owed a long life sweet as them, die too soon, as well. He has a sinkin’ feeling this thing with Bessie’s illness could end up being an awful example of the latter.

“What's that?”

Arthur blows out an exhausted breath, puts down his knife and chunk of softwood. “It's a… sickness, in the lungs, way I understand it.”

“That why Hosea's gonna take her back to the home they got?” John’s brows knit, just like Hosea’s had. A look beyond normal worry. And Arthur’s scared, too. “So she can get better there?” The thin cigarette dangles from John’s lips. He smacks at his coat pockets, so Arthur tosses him his box of matches.

“Sure.” There isn’t any real way to elaborate on that, not with so many unknowns of what that means. Arthur tries to be realistic– knows tomorrow morning could be the last he sees Bessie once Dutch escorts her and Hosea to the house.

“You been there?” The match strikes. A smell of sulfur fills the air momentarily. Arthur mumbles his answer, takes out his pack of smokes when John hands back the matchbox. “Is it nice?”

In truth, Arthur had only been to the house three or four times, shortly after it was purchased. Dutch didn’t like goin’ out there much once Hosea moved in what they all thought was permanently. Arthur would never dare say it out loud, but he is sure Dutch had been jealous.

“Small, but yeah, I’d say it’s pretty nice. Big and nice enough for them two. And they like it. That’s what matters.”

“Anything like the place your family’s got?”

Two years ago, Arthur had helped pay for Eliza to have a room for Isaac built onto that little shack she has, and he recalls the warmth he felt at finally makin’ her happy. Wasn't much, and weren’t as nice as the Matthewses' home, but it was enough for them, too. There were days Arthur mused over tryin’ out what Hosea had with Bessie. A clean life, one outside the gang. And unlike Hosea, maybe he could make it stick.

The thought of leaving always terrified him, though. Mary Linton’s soft voice is instantly in his head with an _I told you so_ kinda tone.

“Sure.” Arthur nods. “Eliza’s place ain't quite as big, maybe. She don’t mind, though. Was hers passed down from some dead aunt or somethin’ before I came along.” _And complicated things._

John leans back on his elbows, blows out a lazy stream of smoke. “Think I’d really like to have that some day.”

“A dead relative willing you a house?” That earns him a laugh from John.

“Just a house in general! Make a nice home. Sit by the fireplace at night, readin’ dime novels.”

Arthur smiles. “Get you a woman to clean up after your lazy hide while you do all that sittin’ and readin’?”

John kicks Arthur’s boot. “Shut up. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a man living out on his own, is there?”

With a kick to John’s boot toe, Arthur answers, “Guess not. You’d probably make a good hermit.” Arthur looks John over. “Not havin’ to answer to nobody. Might wanna to learn how to hunt first, though. Don’t think yer smart enough to know what berries or mushrooms is poisonous.”

Surprisingly, John goes quiet for a minute. Just smokes and stares up at the leaves of the oak Arthur sits against. Arthur thinks he mighta pushed too far.

“Think she’ll be okay?” The words are quiet and small, ground to pieces from John’s throat.

“I think you ask too many goddamn questions.”

John is quiet again, so Arthur goes back to shaping the snout of the doe in his hand. Drawing comes easier to him, but he can’t sketch a damn thing when his mind is racing as it is. Carving little trinkets forces Arthur to slow down some. Calms him. And he likes seein’ the small collection on Isaac’s windowsill grow each time Arthur visits.

John clears his throat, puts his cigarette out in the grass. “Can I ask you one more thing? Then I promise I’ll shut up.” Eyes narrowed, Arthur lifts his head and motions for John to continue. “Think… think you could take me out huntin’ soon? Teach me? I know you’re real good at it, so...”

Hosea and Pearson had each shown John a bit of how to skin and tan a hide, or prep it for sellin’ to trappers and shops what would buy what they were sellin’ for a decent price, but no one had yet to properly teach John the most important part of that: how to actually bag the animal. And now that John has been proving himself a fine shot, well… Arthur can’t find a reason to argue against it.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods. “Make you somethin’ more useful ‘round here. And in the future, you can survive on somethin’ more than berries in your little hermit hut.”

Hands folded over his stomach, still starin’ up at the sky through the emerald leaves, John smiles. “Bet I get better than you within a year.”

Arthur grabs a cluster of acorns from the ground and nails John in the arm. “Don’t push yer luck, kid.”

John smiles wider.

❧

The cold-hardened ground bites into Arthur’s knees as he falls. He ignores the shouts around him, a blur of sound as he cocks his fist back. Catches John in the nose this time, so now both their faces and knuckles are bloodied. Even.

It was the wrong press of teasin’ words from John at the wrong time, piercing beneath already flayed flesh. There was shoving, more words shot out their mouths like arrows. John throwing the first punch is what had Arthur seeing full-on red, though. And he didn’t care to tell John why his temper was currently burning so goddamn hot. Why his emotional patience is kindling and John just happened to be the spark that made it catch. John is the only one who don’t know yet. But Arthur does not care.

“Get the hell off me, you goddamn cocksucker!”

John’s hands are now pressing towards Arthur’s throat. He punches at Arthur’s shoulders while Arthur fists John’s shirt and flattens him firmly into the ground with all his weight. “What did you call me?” Arthur hisses in disbelief.

A sloppy punch sends painful heat into Arthur’s mouth. His already split lip bleeds onto his tongue. John nearly knees Arthur in the groin, but Arthur is too stunned by the truth of John’s insult and the taste of his own blood, that he lets John scramble away to his feet. A second later, somebody is haulin’ Arthur up by his suspenders. He just about falls back on his ass from the force of it.

As soon as Arthur sees the sneer on John’s face, like he wants some more, Arthur can’t help but bait ‘im with words. “C’mon, say that to my face again. Piece a’ shit, free-loading stray.” He takes a step forward towards John, but he’s spun around to face Dutch and all the fury in his eyes.

_“Arthur, enough!”_

“Well, tell that scamp to keep his damn fool mouth shut for once!”

Dutch has a good, almost painful grip on Arthur’s arm. Behind him, Arthur sees the look of disappointment mixed with sympathy on Hosea’s face.

“I think it’s _you_ who should keep his mouth shut now.” Susan leads John away, a rag to his nose, tellin’ him they gotta get ‘im cleaned up.

There is a tension in the air that fills Arthur’s lungs up like he’s drowning in mud-thick water. The urge to run, to get on Boadicea and go wherever isn’t here is awfully strong. That would not change a goddamned thing, though. That wouldn’t bring ‘em back...

“Son,” Dutch grips the side of Arthur’s neck until Arthur is forced to look at him, then he’s holding Arthur steady with hands tight on his shoulders, “we will find who brought this kind of grotesque evil down upon your family. Mark my words.”

Briefly, Arthur sees the same flare of anger in Dutch’s face that had been present in the days after Colm O’Driscoll had shot Annabelle. Was this the same? Annabelle was murdered out of Colm’s need for revenge. Eliza and– and Isaac… they were dead because Arthur had been gone too long. He always was a shadow in their life – not any kinda protector, a shit provider, and an irresponsible father – so it made sense. It was only a matter of time before that shadow he cast pulled a permanent darkness over that little house. “Weren’t my _family,_ Dutch.” Arthur grits out, pushing Dutch’s arms away. He takes a wobbly step back. His anger is calming down to a simmer, and now the alcohol he’d imbibed in grabs hold of him again. Arthur feels unsteady. “Didn’t _deserve_ ‘em. Didn’t treat ‘em well enough to call ‘em that... And now…”

“We will find,” Dutch starts again, more slowly, “the men responsible for this. I swear to you, if that is what you want. I don't know what kind of men have hearts so black as to–" he swallows and tries to place a hand on Arthur’s shoulder again. Arthur shrugs away. Drops down onto the ground to hold his face in his hands between his knees. “We will leave no stone unturned.”

That thickness in his chest is becoming overwhelming again, and he just wants somebody to hurt the way he hurts right now. Wants to hit, kick, bite, kill, slice through the pain encompassing him like constricting ropes. And that was nearly what he’d done to John, wasn’t it? Sure, they’d had their scraps here and there, but nothing so serious. Never _felt_ so serious. If Dutch had not intervened, would Arthur have really tried to kill John? The fact that he does not know the answer to that twists the knife in Arthur’s soul that much deeper. What makes him any better than the people who’d killed Eliza and their son for a measly amount a’ cash?

He lifts his head up at Dutch, feels his lip curl before he roars out, “They were men _like us,_ Dutch! Goddamnit! Men who rob and fuckin’ _kill._ Those kinds! I should just look in the fucking mirror, then, is what I should do. How many fathers, brothers, and _sons_ you think we’ve taken from families?”

From behind Arthur, Hosea’s calm and steady voice cuts through the air. “Arthur, why don’t you come sit with me by the fire and take some breaths, hm?”

The heat in Arthur’s face and the bourbon in his blood keeps the cold at bay. Part of Arthur knows Hosea must feel for him, ‘cause he was this way too, after Bessie passing. For nigh on a damn year. But Hosea – all of ‘em – had time to prepare themselves for that inevitability once the sickness took hold of Bessie’s body and didn’t let up. This… ain’t nothing could have prepared Arthur for this.

“No… no!” Tears fall down Arthur’s face now, collecting in the scruff at his chin. “What am I supposed to do now, huh?” He stumbles to standing and gestures towards Dutch. “Live for vengeance like you with Colm?”

“Arthur!” The sound of Hosea’s firm shout is like a gunshot echoing. Everything seems to go quiet. Arthur whirls around, sees the gaping stares of Susan, Pearson, even Dutch. And then John… fuckin’ John, understanding now and lookin’ even more hurt than what Arthur had already done, roughin’ him up. “I think…” Hosea continues with the kind of sternness that makes Arthur feel like a child that’s wronged his father, and it’s likely he has. Wronged both him and Dutch with his belligerence when it ain’t their faults. “We could all use another drink– _except_ for you.” He points squarely at Arthur. “And then, we’re going to sit calmly by the fire and eat. Enjoy one another’s company.”

Everyone follows Hosea’s orders without argument. John sits beside Hosea on a half-rotted log and Susan lights a cigarette. Pearson goes back to stirring his thin stew.

Arthur and Dutch stare each other down. When Dutch speaks up, his voice is threaded through with emotion. “You know, that is _not_ all I live for. I am sorry you lost your boy, Arthur, I am. And I know you cared for Eliza in a way. But you still have a family here. You still have _us,_ son. We ain’t goin’ anywhere. Do not forget that.” He walks away, sorrow in the set of his shoulders, joining folks by the campfire.

Arthur disappears to his tent to feel sorry for himself for just a little while.

After the crimson clouds of sunset bleed their way into blue, Arthur sits out on a flat piece of rock jutting just off the escarpment they’ve made their encampment on for the past couple months. His back rests against the mostly smooth rockwall, and it’s quiet, almost serene. He tries to let the chilly night’s peace have some influence on his mood. He’d thought about bringing his journal and lantern down here to practise his drawing – as he sometimes does to escape with his thoughts – but he decided he didn’t much have the mind for it. Truth be told, he is a little afraid he would have put these feelings boiling over inside him to written word. This is not something Arthur wants the temptation of looking back on one day. Doesn’t ever wanna relive it.

Footsteps scuff on the gravelly dirt and stone up behind him. Arthur knows that lazy stride. There’s the muffled slap of boot soles hopping down and an agitated curse. Off to the side of Arthur, John stands with a wariness in his stance and a waterskin held in his left hand.

“Ain’t gonna throw you off. You can relax,” Arthur murmurs, gesturing to the cliffside overlooking the green points of cedar forest blanketed out before them.

John breathes out a puff of steam. “Sorry for what I said, about you and Mary. I know you ain’t seen her in awhile, and… I don’t know why I said it. Thought that’s why you were– I wouldn’t have– if I knew…”

“I know.” Arthur nods just to shut ‘im up. Prone to ribbin’ each other, John usually liked to make fun of Arthur’s sorry propensity to chase Mary, even though it generally ended the same: Arthur returning with his tail between his legs and wounded heart and pride both. John would see the pitiful or angry demeanour Arthur came back with, and would ask why the hell he bothered with that woman and her stuck-up family after all these years. Arthur wondered the same each time. That is the madness of love, he assumes. By the shit he’d said earlier, it had been clear John figured Arthur coming back to camp after several days gone, drunk and despondent, was just another one of those times he got his heart stomped on by Mary. If only...

“Still shouldn’t have said it. You got special people in your life– s’pose I get jealous sometimes.”

Arthur turned to glare up at John. “The hell are you talkin’ about? You got us, it’s like Dutch always tells everyone. We’s family. And that’s special.”

John holds out his waterskin to Arthur. “Figured you could maybe use some, instead of more liquor. Should probably eat, too.” Arthur takes the water, guzzles down a cold mouthful and tries not to show just how glad he is for it.

“Thanks,” he gasps after another long drink, wiping the back of his gloved hand across his mouth. “Ate some jerky and biscuits a little while ago. Don’t really think I can stomach more’n that right now.”

“I’m… God, I’m sorry about Eliza and Isaac, Arthur. Real goddamn sorry.”

Motioning for John to sit beside him, Arthur numbly admits, “I’m sorry too, for takin’ it out on you. Like you said, you didn’t know.” He looks at John, now seeing how he’s already starting to bruise under his eyes. His nose is a little puffy. Arthur smirks and bumps John’s shoulder. “Damn, but I went and made you more ugly, huh?”

Bundling ‘imself tighter in his coat, John bristles, but he lets a small laugh escape as he says, “Yeah, well… let’s hope it isn’t permanent. Weren’t tryin’ to compete with you for most ugly of Dutch’s sons.” John narrows his eyes, looking Arthur’s face over then pokes at his cheekbone. It smarts. Arthur knows he’s got a lump where John’s knuckles caught him hard enough to break skin. He jerks away instinctively. “Think you still got me beat.”

They laugh, and Arthur does not quite know how he manages to make the sound. How it bubbles out of him from within the bottomless well of sorrow he feels within himself. Something real. He doesn’t need to fake it.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispers. John lifts his head, confused. “For comin’ over here. It’s damn cold out on the ledge. You didn’t have to leave the fire. Coulda stayed mad at me another day or two. I’d surely deserve it.”

“The hell you would.” And suddenly that angry little flame in John’s eyes flickers back for a moment. “You don’t deserve what happened… and _they especially_ didn’t. I just wish…” John shrugs. “Wish I could say more. I’m shit with words, but I wish I had some nice ones like Hosea might– to maybe make things easier. Hurt less, I don’t know.”

“I don’t need ‘em, John.”

Suddenly, John is hugging him. It’s awkward at this angle, sitting beside one another, pressed against a cold hunk of rock, but John is warm, and his embrace is tight and it means more than words could to Arthur. Knowin’ John doesn’t hate ‘im. Knowin’ he’s still got _this_ family. So he embraces John back just as tightly. In the past five years, this is the first time Arthur recalls them ever hugging. He can almost picture the smug grin on Dutch’s face if he could see them now.

Things hurt a little less.

❧

A year and many more months pass. In the fullness of time, the pain fades moderately. Follows Arthur into his dreams more than anything, so he grows attached to a bottle of booze as his bed partner most nights, unless it’s the day before a planned job. He aims to be as responsible and dependable as ever, despite the demons tearing up his insides. Right now, he doesn’t too much feel like a reliable man.

The night before, he’d done some heavy drinkin’ well after everyone else had bedded down. Too drunk to have taken a guard rotation even, and he feels guilty for it. So here he stands this evening, with an almighty hangover, tired as hell, keepin’ watch by the light of his lantern.

Normally, he’d take to sketching or writing to pass the time. But he is too exhausted for that kinda concentration, and his eyes burn. Reading by candle or lantern light always set Arthur to sleep too easily at night, so that is out of the question, as well. He is just about to set aside his rifle to do a perfunctory cleaning of his revolver, when he hears the strained whisper of John announcing his presence. Arthur peers over his shoulder, feelin’ something like rescued from his boredom.

“Wake up, sunshine. Thought you looked like shit earlier. Still look like shit. Figured I’d swap out with you awhile, ‘cause I ain’t too tired. Allow you to rest some. Surprised you wanted to be out here in the first place.”

“Well now, ain’t you just a charmer, Johnny?” Arthur smiles. “Nah, I don’t need you to take my place. Appreciate the offer. My fault I was a damn idiot, drinkin’ too much last night. Can’t slack on my duties though, unlike some people…”

“Now I _know_ you’re talking about Uncle, not me.”

“Oh sure, sure…” Arthur grins at John, and tries to persuade him to go, because he can surely handle another couple hours.

John shuffles in place, moves to unsling his rifle from his shoulder, but stops and puts his hands on his hips instead. “I could keep you company?” His voice is surprisingly timid.

“Yeah. Yeah, I wouldn't mind that.”

It isn’t a lie. John keeps him awake and a whole lot less bored. They end up sitting on the ground, back to back, shooting the breeze and laughing louder than they should be for two men keepin’ guard of camp. John is easy company. The older he gets, the less they fight with one another. Though, when they do argue now, things sometimes get physical rather quickly. They’re both stubborn jackasses with tempers easily stoked.

Not so lanky anymore, John is solid against Arthur. Arthur tosses his hat off and rests his head back on John’s shoulder, comfortable and at ease. They pass a cigarillo back and forth, both of them getting quieter, more relaxed. Arthur stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other. The exhaustion he’d felt earlier smacks him in the face now, and he grows more sleepy. He is suddenly aware of how warmth tingles everywhere the line of his body touches John’s. Is aware of their fingers brushing each time they pass the cigarillo. Arthur says he’s fine the next time John tries passin’ it back. This strange feeling gets worse each time John’s deep, gravelly voice vibrates against Arthur’s back. He enjoys it, and that ain’t good, maybe. Arthur thinks he hears John softly whisper for him to go to sleep.

When Arthur wakes, it’s as John is lying ‘im down to rest his head in his lap. Arthur startles, not understanding the gentleness by John’s hands. He sits upright, scowling at John while he fully comes to, asking what the hell he’s doing, though John has done not a damn thing wrong.

“Hey, hey…” John holds up his hands, brow furrowed. “I was just tryin’ to get us more comfortable. Wanted to stretch my neck and back out, was gettin’ stiff. And I didn’t want to wake you. Tried not to, anyhow. Thought you’d… sorry, I guess.”

Arthur looks John over, unsure of why he’s even pissed. “Yeah, well… now you can stretch out. I’m goin’ back to my cot.” He grabs his rifle up and thumbs over his shoulder in the direction of camp, then beats a hasty retreat, leaving John looking awfully puzzled. Arthur feels just the same at his own behaviour.

The following morning, he and John are firmly ordered by Miss Grimshaw to ride out a few miles to the clear-running creek, and have a thorough bath, as they’ll be escorting her and Tilly to the nearby town of Carissa for a supply run. She tells them they all need to look presentable, and Arthur and John can’t go lookin’ like outlawed, unwashed roughnecks– Grimshaw apparently thinkin’ they _do_ appear as such currently. Arthur peers down at his patched up jacket and denim jeans, which are more brown than blue in places, and silently agrees with that assessment.

On the ride, Arthur and John make minimal small talk, and once at the creek, they don’t speak much at all. Arthur cannot bring himself to shoot so much as a single friendly insult John’s way, or taunt him about his ineptitude with swimming. No lighthearted goading, just silence as they wash, facing away from one another.

Arthur’s motions over his own body with a rag and sliver of soap are mechanical and automatic. Too lost in his own head, he pays no mind to his hands. He concentrates on not looking at John, but then John is saying something in passing, and Arthur turns. He’d already found himself unconsciously eyeing John after they’d first undressed. _Really looking._ John is a man now, lean but strong. Arthur’s eyes had lingered, he knows it. Now he feels embarrassed for how he admires John’s body. Feels ashamed most of all. This is John, and Arthur has no right to thoughts about him that ain’t innocent or comradely.

When Arthur goes to pat himself dry and dress, he swears that maybe he catches John staring, too. Or maybe it is just some twisted, wishful thinking.

Going into town, Arthur avoids direct conversation with John, only comments if he truly has something to say whenever anyone else speaks. Mostly, he ends up joking around with young Miss Tilly. Though she’s somewhat shy about it, Arthur gets her to sing a little, because something about her smooth, airy voice calms his tense nerves. If John speaks to him, asks him something, Arthur shuts ‘im down, which garners him strange and pointed looks from Grimshaw beside him. Arthur lights a cigarette, keeping his mind on driving the horses and the path before them. The sooner they get to their destination, the better.

Not a one of ‘em know Arthur’s real purpose for bringin’ Boadicea along to the old mining town. He’s got her hitched to the side of the wagon, and she enjoys the easy-paced exercise free of saddle and rider. Tilly sneaks her peppermints when she thinks Arthur ain’t aware.

At the end of their shoppin’ trip, John catches Arthur’s arm as he is retrieving Bo’s saddle and blanket from the back of the wagon to make room for loading up more supplies. He asks if Arthur’s all right. So goddamn sincere. Arthur keeps on moving, letting John know he's just fine, but needs some time alone. He'd already told the lot of them he was stayin' in Carissa for a day to clear his head. Takes advantage of their sympathies because the truth of the matter as a whole, is that Arthur still ain't right after the deaths of Eliza and their son. No one presses or argues, except John, of course.

The lie of it is that Arthur’s thrice broken heart can’t hold what he dreads he is feeling for John. What he must clear his head of, are any traces of feeling. Dig ‘em up before they can potentially plant roots and grow. If he wasn’t goin’ there already, using his tragedy as an excuse to avoid John is sure to send Arthur to Hell.

John is enthusiastic in assuring Arthur that though Carissa ain’t too far from where their encampment is, he will be vigilant on the ride back, lookin’ out for Tilly and Miss Grimshaw. Arthur figures this’ll be good for him to prove more responsibility on his own in a way.

He pats John’s arm, gives him a tight smile. “I know, John. I trust you will.”

Drinkin’ and keeping to himself at the town’s small saloon is what Arthur ends up doing to bide his time until nightfall. After that, he downs his whiskey a little slower, watching for anyone watching him. Spent too much time at this game. He knows what to look for. 

Men who might not like the way a feller seems, won’t hide their disdain or suspicions. Might even voice it or hell, just throw a punch. The men Arthur shares a peculiar interest with though, they’ll face their drink or a beautiful woman draping her tits over a bannister all while they look at you from the corner of one eye like they can’t wait to get their hands down your pants. It’s those men Arthur watches for.

A tall feller that would probably be twice as handsome if he’d shaved and didn’t stink of horse stalls and beer is who catches Arthur’s eye. Or maybe it was the other way around and Arthur was the fish that was bein’ baited. Some lonely rancher who strikes up conversation with a question ‘bout the goddamn weather. But then he’s sayin’ something about the _leaves of grass_ being particularly dry this season and Arthur’s doubts about his leanings are entirely assuaged by that tiny riddle.

Luckily, the man’s room is one of the four at the back of the saloon. He is patient and all too gentle with Arthur. When Arthur had walked into this saloon today, with what he had in mind, he hadn’t cared if he got the shit beat out of him for surveying the place for men of his inclination. It would’ve been justified. He didn’t need this care, this– this play at affection. He is only due roughness, and maybe that’s really what he’d sought out. 

Arthur’s temporary bedmate enjoys himself more than enough to make a mess across Arthur’s hip when he pulls out after about ten minutes. The tension in Arthur’s gut has nothing to do with his own pleasure and soon, his body gives away his discontent and he resigns himself to it, though the softhearted rancher, with his callous-hardened palms tries his damnedest to amend the situation. Arthur admires his perseverance, so he doesn't quite shove him off. Expecting to have caused offence to the man – as most in this situation seem to have the fuses of their tempers snipped pretty short to prove the hefty size of their manliness if their peckers can’t prove it for them – Arthur attempts kind words as he cleans himself off and begins dressing. What he does not expect, is to be the one offended.

In lieu of pleasin’ Arthur properly, the feller has the nerve to offer him a few dollars. Ignorin’ the fact that perhaps no harm is meant, Arthur refuses, vehemently informin’ this man that he ain’t his whore. Damn near kicks the man out before rememberin’ this room belongs to _him._ Arthur grabs his hat and quickly excuses himself.

Back at the bar, Arthur buys a bottle of the establishment’s cheapest whiskey, which ain’t an imposing request, then leaves to grab Bo’. He leads her down to the hotel, buys a room, even though it is more expensive than if he’d got one at the saloon, and certainly more costly than camping on the outskirts of town. With the goldmine dried up, Arthur’s pockets are rightly gouged by the place. The room he is given a key to ain’t much bigger or nicer than the saloon’s. He sighs to ‘imself and tosses his hat and saddlebags in one corner, kicks his boots off at the side of the bed, and drapes his gun belt over the top of the bedside cabinet.

Drinking himself towards sleep, Arthur thinks about how he'd always pinched pennies and accumulated incremental savings to bring to Eliza and Isaac. He has not broken the habit, but now wastes that surplus on rooms to sulk in alone or fuck strange men in because he can no longer stand the touch of a woman that ain't Mary. He passes out wonderin' if his heart will ever be right again.

❧

Dutch had decided they all deserved a party of sorts; they have a decent amount of money stored up from hittin' a coach carrying payroll and they ain't had the heat of the law on them in months. When they find a no-good town in Montana three saloons deep and two brothels wide, Dutch is generous with his spendin'. Everyone enjoys the replenished food stores and the liquor and crates of beer. The men enjoy the working girls brought back to camp for the night.

Uncle is a natural, boastful storyteller, having everyone in stitches, even when it becomes clear some are laughing at 'im more than with 'im. When the tales run out, his fingers take over as he plucks away drunkenly at his banjo. Folks dance around the fire, singing brilliantly off-key. Even Abigail, so very pregnant, sits beside the fire, smiling and clapping along.

Seeing her like that, Arthur gets a little frustrated with John. He still refuses to accept what Miss Roberts says is true, that John is her unborn baby’s father, and is most vocal about it to Arthur. He and John spend their fair share of time bickerin’ over it. Almost as much as Arthur hears John and Abigail argue. Right now, John – though fairly soaked – tries to join in on the dancing, having jumped up from his seat on the large elk pelt he is sharing with Arthur.

Arthur watches the way John makes a fool of ‘imself, half on purpose. Somehow, he tries to make his immature idiocy a part of his charm. A young thing tryin' to impress the women in camp. Arthur feels a coal of jealousy burn in his chest, wondering if John's got a mind to pay any of the whores he twirls around. But before he can feel too down about it, John is throwing himself on the ground right beside Arthur again.

“Gimme a smoke, will ya?” John nudges Arthur with his elbow, still panting an’ grinning ear-to-ear. The night is fair-weathered, and all the commotion and movement ‘round the campfire keeps everyone warm. But it’s still somethin’ how Arthur appreciates the line of John’s body leaning against him as he brings the end of his cigarette towards the match Arthur strikes for ‘im.

John doesn’t get up again unless it’s to get another beer, some food, or take a piss. Every time, he returns only to Arthur. They talk in loud voices over the noise of everyone else, and Arthur becomes nearly mesmerised when things settle down and his nonsense conversations with John become an intimate hush, their heads pressed close. Arthur realises then, that despite the few whistles and bawdy remarks John had thrown towards the working girls this evening, it has been he and John who were busy makin’ sheep’s eyes at one another. He lets the whiskey numb his nerves, swims in the pool of his drunkenness, in the warm company of John, of his family surrounding them.

The act of stumbling to John’s tent is a fuzzy, floating cloud of consciousness. John’s arm slung over Arthur’s shoulders, Arthur’s arm around John’s trim waist. Their legs are like heavy lead weights, anchoring them to the ground with clumsy, heavy steps. There is a quietness about camp compared to earlier as people pass out or retire to their respective tents and lean-tos one by one… or two by two. John and Arthur don’t do a great job at bein’ quiet, however. Cursin’ each other and laughing over nothing. Arthur deposits John on his cot like a sack of grain, and John nearly pulls him down, too. There is a look that’s shared, and Arthur thinks, in his whiskey-soaked mind, that maybe it’s the look he was always searchin’ for in the eyes of other men. Tells ‘imself not a single woman ever looked at him like this, like John is. Perhaps not even Mary.

It’s a romantic notion, to think they meet in the middle when John starts to pull Arthur in with a hand at the back of his neck. That their mutual eagerness is what makes their kiss so rough, lips connecting in a hard, close-mouthed way that is nearly painful. Arthur pulls back, searching John’s face for any sign of regret or disgust. Finding no evidence of either, he leans in to kiss John down into his mattress tick, passionately but still in an uncoordinated fashion that marks their drunkenness. John’s mouth tastes like bitter beer, and it’s wonderful. He kisses and holds onto Arthur like he wants to bed ‘im, fingers digging into his waist and hair. Arthur feels all the more intoxicated for it.

In a sobering moment of clarity, Arthur becomes aware of how bad this scenario is, from a million different angles. With residual affection, Arthur cups John’s face as he breaks their kiss. He sits up, ignores the tug in his chest and the disoriented expression on John’s face. He leaves for his own tent without a word.

* * *

Arthur is snapped back into the present by the wagon wheel going over what must be a sizable rock. Thankfully, the wheel stays put. He don’t much feel like fightin’ with fixing another one right now. Hosea is sayin’ something about _Leviticus Cornwall_ again. That oil tycoon, railway magnate or big shot of some other such business Arthur ain’t too clear on the full extent of. Arthur just nods, knowin’ now that in spite of that scruffy little O’Driscoll weasel they caught helpin’ lead them to such a big train job, and hittin’ it before Colm and his boys got the chance first, it weren’t a smart idea. Hopefully the large take they ended up with makes their risk worth such a reward.

After what went down in Blackwater, they shouldn’t have gone messin’ with a notable man, is what Hosea has been arguin’ with Dutch since they left the mountains, and Arthur is inclined to agree. Not the brightest way of lyin’ low, in hindsight. Though, none of them really claim to be of a greater intelligence. And it has not stopped them before.

“You’re unusually quiet, Arthur. Everything all right?” Hosea asks.

Unthinking, Arthur quietly blurts out, “I don’t want John to die.”

Hosea chuckles, tellin’ Arthur the worst of John’s infection is subsiding. “But he is lucky that leg didn’t get worse, turn to sepsis. The entire time you boys were off robbin’ the train, he wasn’t too happy to be missin’ out on a job like that. Nearly limped a damn hole in the floorboards tryin’ to pace the room until I gave him some liquor to cool his heels.”

“Yeah… I know.” Arthur covers his embarrassment best he can by keeping his voice level and gruff. “Damn idiot was raring to go even though he can’t hardly walk on his own two steps.”

“You know how that boy is.” Arthur turns his head to see a rueful grin on Hosea’s face. “What John hates more than disappointin’ those he cares about, is when he disappoints himself.”

Arthur nods again. He chances a glance back at the buckboard wagon that trails behind his. He knows John is asleep, laid out in the back. Swanson had given ‘im a decent dose of morphine the last time they stopped to hand out food rations. Abigail is back there with Jack, too. Arthur wonders how she’s fairing and if Jack is still doin’ okay.

“Sure you’re all right?”

Arthur whips his head back around. “Yeah, just… little out of sorts.”

“A great deal of stinking horseshit has been dumped on us, Arthur. Reckon it’s a lot to handle in a short span of time. But we’ll recover. Like Dutch says, we always do. We’ve got a tough bunch, and we’ll be even tougher once John is up and about, and we get Mac and Sean back with us.”

Arthur ain’t too sure about that.

“Can I… talk to you about somethin’?” He keeps his voice even lower and Hosea follows suit.

“Well of course, Arthur. What’s on your mind?”

And ain’t it grand that the moment Arthur thinks he might actually be able to confide in Hosea the feelings he has for John, his belly turns yellow and he goddamn chickens out. He decides to tell Hosea it might be best if he waits to have this conversation until they’re settled somewhere, not truly knowing what that means for them yet. Thankfully, Hosea easily lets it go, but he instead suggests Arthur go check on John. Tells Arthur he figures they’ll be stopping to make camp in a couple hours anyway, and reassures he is awake enough to lead Arthur’s wagon when Arthur takes a jab at his age.

Arthur jumps out with no issue, slow as their wagon train is currently goin’ in the pitch of night, and jogs back to wave at Karen. She quirks a brow at Arthur as she looks down at him from the wagon bench. Before she can pull back on the reins, Arthur tells her, “Nah, keep goin’. Everything’s fine, just– gonna hop in the back for a bit.”

Karen shrugs. “Whatever you say, Morgan. Goodluck squeezin’ back there, though.”

It certainly is a tight squeeze, what with John, Abigail, Jack, and Tilly back here plus a crate and some odds an’ ends. Tilly is awake, lazily smokin’ a cigarette, and greets Arthur with a tired smile. Against two stacked hay bales towards the back of the bench, Abigail sits with Jack curled against her, head in her lap. She looks exhausted. And of course, just as he suspected, John is dead to the world. Just a narrow lump quietly snorin’ beneath a single blanket.

“Abigail.”

“Hey, Arthur.” Abigail’s wan smile turns into a yawn she tries hiding behind the back of her hand.

“How ‘bout you let me worry ‘bout Jack for a minute, huh? You get some shut-eye.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine, really.”

“Just for a bit, c'mon.” Arthur takes off his coat, offers it to her to pillow her head as they shift around the small space until a very groggy Jack is tucked against Arthur's side. Now Arthur has Abigail lying beside the stretch of his legs on one side and John on the other. But they fit, the four of them, awkward as it is. Arthur tightens his arm protectively around little Jack. It don’t take long before Abigail seemingly dozes off, her breaths becoming shallow and soft in the way that comes with sleep. 

Arthur tilts his face down to look at John. His head is close to Arthur’s hip, turned towards the wagon wall. Most of John’s bandages have come off by now, and Arthur has an unhindered view of the stitched slashes across the right side of his face. A scarf hides the small gash above his collarbone. Each wound is red and angry, still darkly crusted in blood. Arthur lifts his hand to run his fingers over John’s stringy hair.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur catches Tilly staring. He turns to say something, any words that would clear his actions from anything other than the calming touch of a friend, a brother, but Arthur clams up in the face of Tilly’s sympathetic smile.

She reaches over, pats the side of Arthur’s boot, mouthing, _“It’s all right.”_

And Arthur hopes like hell that’s true. His muscles relax as Tilly’s gaze is cast back out towards the picturesque landscape of Grizzlies West. He cannot wait until they reach the lush green fields of New Hanover. The thought brings back cheerless memories, from years ago. The year-long search for John; Arthur’s heart gone missing, not realising then what it was. What it would become. Arthur continues petting at John’s hair, leans his head back against a hay bale, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone for your patience. I've been working on what at times feels like a million different writing projects at once the last few months, and needed to put this story on the back burner for a bit so that the quality of everything I worked on was up to par with my own standards lol. My writing is currently more slow-going than I'm used to while I recover from some stupid health stuff. I am finally getting better, no worries, just very low energy and still dealing with a bit of brain fog, so I write when I have the time and a clear enough mind.  
> Thank you to new readers and those who've stuck around since I started this♥♥♥ You da best, truly.

**Author's Note:**

> I am quite late to the party, I know. And this is such a departure from what I normally write! So your comments and kudos are immensely appreciated, and I am grateful to anyone who gives this a read. For what I've planned, the storytelling for this might be a little on the unconventional side (which also made it hard to accurately tag), and I'm not 100% sure how many chapters it will have, but we'll see how it goes!  
> 0x
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky and Twitter @oh_amatus!


End file.
